


The Pantomime

by knit_wear



Series: The Harlequin [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Complete, Control Issues, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Nolan-verse, Personal Lives, Reluctant Team Ups, Sequel, Sexual Tension, Slow Reveal, Smut, Thriller, Toxic People in Healthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 263,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knit_wear/pseuds/knit_wear
Summary: All couples have their ups and downs, and communication is hard, even for Gotham’s two most notorious psychopaths.- or -Harley and the Joker struggle to communicate, and with the Riddler on the loose and Black Mask taking over the city, the timing couldn’t be worse.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Series: The Harlequin [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580605
Comments: 864
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Alright, alright, here we go, people. I am both excited and terrified (probably 30-70 if I’m honest) to share this with you. Sequels are frequently awful, though occasionally, they outshine the original. God knows what will happen here.**

**New readers: You should probably read ‘The Harlequin’ and ‘Holiday’ - the current record for binge reading both is 3 days. Tell me if you can do (or have done) better! ;) This is a *little* different from both of those (at least as different as they are from each other).** ****

**At the same time, this is kind of a level up from the Harlequin so... do what you need to, lol.**

**This probably takes about three chapters to really pick up, so stick with it.**

**And here we go… I'm including music this time because people on Tumblr were loving it.**

_Theme: Brian Eno - 'Baby's On Fire' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2PV9sorI2h94qEPke7SlGI?si=hSsgmisDTqOvnHth0d4LMg)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/nItuhuY1U04)) _

* * *

The Pantomime

Part 1 - Noir 

1.

* * *

_I am illness to some and freedom to others_

_Repetition and chaos are the choices we make_

_I am the one thing that will make the mind break_

_What am I?_

* * *

It was Y2K night at the Iceberg Lounge.

This was not the same Iceberg Lounge Penguin used to run. This was _Lucy's_ place now, and she'd turned the club into the hottest ticket in town.

Where there had once been art-deco diamonds and prohibition-era nostalgia, now there was cheetah print and pink crystals. The brass bands and ragtime tunes had been replaced with synth-pop and disco, and instead of tables full of rich people dressed in _cocktail casual_ , the dance floor was packed with fashionable party monsters moving together beneath flashing pink and purple lights.

Lucy bounced her stiletto heel anxiously on the zebra print carpet, her green eyes sweeping the club from her spot in the VIP area. Instead of a velvet rope, she'd installed a massive, gilded birdcage in front of the old kitchen doors, accessible only to her most important guests. If the people on the dance floor squinted, they might catch a glimpse of those important people through a curtain of pink crystals, but from where she was sitting, Lucy could see _everything_. She took note of a group of stockbrokers in suits sniffing violet-colored powder off the backs of their phones, giving them courage before they waded into a sea of young bodies.

Lucy reached for her cigarettes and slipped one between her lips, then hunted through her pink feathered bag for a lighter when one clicked to life beside her.

She looked up at the lighter's owner, her bodyguard, Victor Zsasz.

"This is your daily reminder to use your vape pen," he said, shooting Lucy a knowing look that made her roll her eyes.

Victor was not the same Victor Zsasz Lucy partnered up with out of desperation a year earlier. That Victor had been _beyond_ creepy, with a fetish for dissecting blonde women he claimed to _liberate_. Victor used to hover all the time, calling women 'little creatures' in a low, rattly purr that made Lucy's skin crawl. But then the new boss stepped in and took Victor away for a few weeks, and when he came back, he was a different man. Loyal, a little bit dopy, still intimidating and dangerous, but not in that creepy skin-crawling way.

Lucy wasn't entirely sure what the boss did to him, but all of Victor's hair fell out—including his eyebrows and that gross goatee.

Frankly, Lucy didn't want to know.

"You're nervous," Victor observed blithely, making the closest thing to a sympathetic face he was capable of.

"Why shouldn't I be," Lucy bristled, taking two quick drags off her cigarette and searching the club again. "Bringing them here is a crazy idea. Oh, thank _God._ "

Two men slipped into the birdcage through the curtain of crystals hiding the old kitchen doors. The first man was small and skinny, with hollow cheeks and monkey-ish ears. He wore a pair of blue-tinted oval glasses and had a cigarette pinched between two fingers. The other was bulky but not quite pudgy—at least not _yet_ —with a thick head of dark hair and a twinkle in his eye. People said Mario looked just like his father, Carmine Falcone, while his skinny brother Alberto was more like their mother and their older sister, Sofia.

Lucy sighed in relief as Mario sat beside her on the magenta chaise lounge, taking both her hands and kissing them. Alberto lowered himself into a cheetah-print armchair encrusted with pink rhinestones, crossing his legs and smoking in silence as he was prone to doing.

"You alright, baby?" Mario offered Lucy a supportive smile. "You want a little something to get your spirits up?"

"Yes, please," Lucy nearly groaned as Mario pulled a baggie of violet powder from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, then used his little finger to scoop up a bump, offering it to Lucy first before he took one for himself.

Lucy closed her eyes, soaking up the euphoria that would only last a few seconds, but leave her feeling calm and floaty for a few more hours.

The crystal curtain hiding them from the rest of the club swung aside as one of Lucy's favorite bartenders arrived, his strawberry-blonde hair coiffed into an elaborate rockabilly spiral, his fashion sense impeccable as always.

"Can I get anyone a drink?" Ed beamed at Lucy, his lip gloss glinting under the flashing lights.

"Hey, Ed, tell us a joke!" Mario grinned, rubbing his nose to wipe away a dusting of purple powder.

"What's black and white and red all over?" Ed quipped, his pale eyebrows raising. "A newspaper!" he squealed before anyone could answer, making everyone chuckle.

"Ed, can you make us a round of martinis?" Lucy grinned up at him. _Everyone_ loved Ed.

"And how _dirty_ would you like those, Miss Lucy," Ed waggled his eyebrows, making Lucy giggle.

"Extra dry, please," she smiled, and Ed winked camply before half-skipping out of the birdcage.

The music shifted into a sexier, auto-tuned track, and the crowd cheered, making Lucy beam with pride as she watched them throw their hands up. She nearly asked Mario to dance with her, forgetting the business at hand when Victor cleared his throat awkwardly, one finger pressed to his earpiece.

"They're here," he told Lucy, feigning a wince.

Lucy's pulse leaped, a flicker of fear zig-zagging through her as Mario laced his fingers through hers reassuringly.

Two hands smeared with red and white paint appeared through the crystal curtain covering the old kitchen doors, slowly pushing them aside before the Joker stepped through, one eyebrow raised appraisingly as he looked around the VIP room. 

He stood out like an alien against the club's pink and animal print background, nothing in his face even remotely human. His skin was chalk-white, his blackened eyes skull-like, the gruesome scars stretching from one cheek to the other painted a bloody red. Instead of the crazy purple and green get-up he was known for, he wore a black suit with a skinny tie and a crisp white shirt, making him look longer and leaner than he usually did on TV and in the newspapers. It felt like he was missing something without that insane purple suit, but its absence didn’t make him any less terrifying to look at in the flesh.

The Joker's black eyes bounced over each of them in turn as he slunk into the room. He didn't linger on Mario, Alberto, or Victor, despite his ancient history with each of them. Instead, his disconcerting eyes settled on Lucy. He offered her a lazy smirk as he stopped in front of her, his head tipping to the side as he peered down at her curiously.

Lucy felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, the Joker's presence so overwhelming and pervasive she almost forgot to breathe. And if the way Mario's hand tightened on hers was any indication, he was feeling it too.

She rolled her shoulders back and raised her chin, trying to find the confidence she'd learned from Penguin.

"Miss _Lucy,_ " the Joker purred, his hand dipping into his suit jacket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. "So _this_ is what it feels like to be _summoned."_

Lucy licked her lips, reminding herself this was _her_ club, and he was there on _her_ wishes even if she _was_ downright terrified. She glanced behind the Joker as he lit a cigarette, half-hoping and half-dreading his partner appearing next. Lucy knew all too well that Harley could be as dangerous as the Joker, but Harley was a _known_ quantity. They worked together for almost six months when Harley was one of Penguin's advisors, whispering in his ear until she got bored and had him sent to Arkham.

_Bitch._

The first whispers that Harley and the Joker were back in Gotham started about four weeks earlier, just after the Fourth of July. At first, Lucy didn't believe it; no one had seen them in over six months, and the consensus was that they were dead. Some people thought Holiday killed them, others were convinced the Batman wised up and took care of them for good, or maybe someone else just got lucky. But in the end, it was all wishful thinking. Wherever they'd gone, they were back now, and the boss had tasked Lucy with dealing with them.

The Joker ran his tongue over his bottom lip and glanced over his shoulder, following Lucy's gaze.

Everyone seemed to be collectively holding their breath, even the Joker, his head tipping back at an unnatural angle as he exhaled a vertical plume of smoke.

And then finally, Harley Quinn appeared, swatting the pink crystals aside like she found them offensive, her blackened eyes immediately landing on Victor.

Lucy's mouth nearly fell open when she saw Harley. Her face was painted like the Joker's, twisting her classically beautiful features into something ghoulish. But that was to be expected, what startled Lucy was how completely _wild_ she looked, feral like a mangy cat. She wore a pair of fraying high-cut denim shorts and a dirty-looking red Hawaiian-print shirt knotted at her waist, showing off a sliver of tanned skin. Her blonde hair fell half-way down her back, tangled and matted like she hadn't washed or brushed it in months. 

Harley lowered herself onto the purple chaise lounge opposite Lucy, her eyes narrowing to slits as she stared at Victor. 

Victor and Harley had some not-so-ancient history too.

The Joker stretched his arms over his head in an exaggerated yawn, grunting thoughtfully as he squinted at Mario.

"Well _, hey_ there, Mario," he drawled, taking another drag off his cigarette as his eyes narrowed curiously. "Long time no see. Where ya been, _pal?_ "

"Joker," Mario greeted him with a sharp nod. "Blackgate. Maroni had me put away so I couldn't challenge him."

"Uh huh," the Joker hummed distractedly, apparently finding Mario tedious before he shot Victor a smirk. "Victorrrrrrrr. _Buddy._ How's life, huh?"

"Life's good, J," Victor replied affably, making the Joker's smirk widened into a delighted grin as his shoulders started to shake with quiet laughter.

Lucy braced herself for the laugh. _That laugh._ Mario's grip on her hand tightened, almost hurting her as he braced himself too. But instead of laughing, the Joker just took another drag off his cigarette and collapsed back on the purple chaise lounge, not quite next to Harley. She was sitting rigidly on the corner, still glowering at Victor like she wanted to rip his head off, while the Joker made himself comfortable, slumped down, his long legs splayed out in front of him. They didn't acknowledge each other, and Lucy realized that Harley hadn't looked at the Joker once since she arrived.

As a high maintenance girlfriend frequently pissed off with her man, Lucy recognized the petulant set of Harley's jaw all too well, and she realized Harley's death glare could have equally been about resentment for her boyfriend as it was about hating Victor.

Ed returned then with a tray of drinks, smiling cheerfully until he spotted the Joker and Harley. His eyes widened comically before his expression turned utterly blank, and he almost dropped the martinis, catching them at the last moment as he sputtered apologies.

Harley and the Joker turned to look at him in unison, apparently deciding he wasn't worth their energy simultaneously, their eyes swinging back to Lucy and Victor like they'd choreographed moving together in advance.

"Dry gin martinis," Ed announced shakily, uncharacteristically nervous as he offered the tray to Lucy. She gave him a sympathetic smile and plucked up one of the cocktails, feeling guilty for subjecting him to the clowns.

Looking almost cartoonishly anxious, Ed offered the tray around. The Joker ignored him, but Harley took two, knocking them both back before she settled in to glare at Victor again while Ed made a hasty escape.

"So… _Lucy,"_ the Joker hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his suit trousers riding up to expose a pair of purple socks. "I hear you've got a _job_ for us."

Lucy did not miss Harley's blackened eyes darting toward the Joker, her mouth puckering sourly before she refocused her glare on Victor.

"That's right," Lucy replied, aiming for friendly even as she got distracted by the Joker prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue, prodding the _scars_ inside his mouth, she realized with a shiver of disgust. "I uh, need some help with our District Attorney, ya see," she added.

"Janice Porter, huh," the Joker hummed, tapping ash from his cigarette on the floor as he continued to stare at Lucy intently. "She causin’ _problems_ for you, Lucy?"

"Something like that," Lucy said, lifting her chin to let him know it wasn't any of his business.

"So, uh, you want us to take her out for you, is that it?" the Joker's lips twitched like he found the prospect amusing, making Lucy feel naive even though she had _told_ the boss this was a terrible idea.

Offering the Joker a job? Everyone who'd ever tried that was dead or locked up. Besides, they were _terrorists._ They didn't care about money, just _killing_ people and keeping themselves entertained. Any mid-level enforcer could have brought Janice Porter in, but the boss insisted the clowns be the ones to do it, and whatever the boss wanted, the boss got.

"Not kill her," Lucy said quickly, feeling Mario's hand squeeze hers supportively. "We just need her brought in for a talk. Think you guys could do that for us?"

"How much we talkin' about?" the Joker drawled, one eyebrow jutting up as he crushed his cigarette out on the couch, burning a hole in the purple fabric.

"Five grand," Lucy replied, dread pooling in her stomach over offering him such a measly sum.

Any half-decent hitman wouldn't get out of bed for so little money, and the Joker was hardly a _hitman._

Oh, she'd _tried_ to talk the boss out of this, but he had insisted. And he wouldn’t even tell her _why_ —Lucy was just supposed to trust him on this as she did in all things. 

"Hmm," the Joker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and Lucy’s heart began to slam fitfully against her breastbone, feeling overwhelmed just by that _stare_. "Six grand and you gotta deal," he said, popping another cigarette between his lips.

Lucy glanced at Harley quickly, watching her turn to stare at the Joker as he lit a fresh smoke, her incredulous expression magnified by her face paint.

Something was _definitely_ going on there.

The Joker abruptly hopped to his feet, peering down at Lucy as he smoked pensively, and Lucy felt her hands begin to tremble as she forced herself to hold his gaze, knowing she was only doing a halfway decent job of hiding her fear.

"Six grand," she agreed.

"Mmm, you got yourself a _deal,_ Miss Lucy," the Joker growled.

Lucy released a relieved breath she'd been holding before she looked at Harley, feeling she needed to include her.

"Listen, if you two hear from Jonathan Crane, you let me know, okay?" Lucy said, her voice strong despite the lump in her throat. "I know he’s a pal of yours, Harley."

"Jonathan Crane is a terrible criminal _,"_ Harley shot Lucy a withering look. "The Batman will lock him up again sooner or later."

"He escaped three weeks ago," Alberto pointed out drily. "We can give you another four grand if you find him before the Batman does."

"Sure," Harley agreed sarcastically, rising to her feet. She shot Victor one last deadly glare, then turned and stomped out of the birdcage.

The Joker lingered behind, still squinting at Lucy curiously, making her feel like he was trying to read her mind. Then he sucked in a breath through his nose and offered her a cheesy grin, showing off a row of tobacco-stained teeth in a sickly display. Before Lucy could respond, he'd spun around and loped out of the birdcage after Harley, leaving a vacuum of tension in his wake.

"Holy shit," Lucy gasped, collapsing against Mario, who rubbed her back comfortingly. 

“Yikes,” Victor observed, wrinkling his nose in an exaggerated cringe as he caught Lucy’s eye. “That was tense.”

Lucy nodded slowly, looking to Mario for his take.

“You think they’ll really do it?” she asked him nervously. 

"I dunno, baby," Mario shrugged, shaking out a line of purple powder on the back of his hand and offering it up to her. "I don't wanna think about the clowns anymore," he added as Lucy sniffed up the line. "Let's go dance and forget about 'em, okay?"

"Yeah," Lucy rubbed her nose, sniffing away the satisfying burn at the back of her throat. Euphoria swept over her again, and suddenly Mario was enveloped in a warm pink glow, and she could see little fluffy hearts spinning around him. Lucy giggled and tried to catch one of the hearts, her hand swiping through empty air as Mario sniffed up a line and offered her a dreamy smile.

"I love you, baby," he sighed as Lucy tried to catch another fluffy pink heart. She knew she was hallucinating, but she didn't care. She didn't care about the clowns or what the boss wanted, either. 

Everything was better when you were high on Blue Orchid.

* * *

Harley was not happy.

In fact, she was fucking pissed off.

She sat in the back of an expensive town car with buttery leather seats, something stolen so they wouldn't stick out parked in the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge. The backs of her thighs were sticking to the leather, and her arms were crossed tight over her chest as she stared out the window, stewing in her thoughts and getting angrier and angrier as she had been doing for days now.

The Joker sat on the other side of the backseat, slouched down carelessly as he chain-smoked out a cracked window and loosened his tie, his legs twitching restlessly. They didn't say a word to each other, but that didn't come as much of a surprise. They hadn't spoken in almost a week aside from a text letting Harley know she was getting picked up at midnight, and one sentence the Joker snapped at her just before they went into that stupid birdcage.

_"Oh, uh, Victor's in there, so keep it in your pants and don't kill him."_

That was it. That was all he had to say.

They'd been back in Gotham four weeks, and in that time, the Joker had grown more and more distant from Harley. She had never been cheated on before, but she suspected this was how it felt. He was hiding something from her, something she became more and more convinced of the more time went on.

It had been bizarre returning to Gotham to find it so changed, its thriving criminal underbelly diminished, the mob by all appearances banished without a kingpin despite their decades-long domination of the city. Possibly, Harley and the Joker had discussed, as a result of Holiday's efforts to take out the underworld's top brass. Harley could not have cared less what happened to the mob or who was running it, even if Gotham's newfound lawfulness was making it difficult to get guns and muscle and safehouses. That was all fine. All Harley was concerned with was finding the Riddler and making an example out of him, and to do that all she needed was her partner and a handful of loyal henchmen.

So, while the Joker worked on rooting out some of their more useful minions, Harley secured a safe house in the north Gotham neighborhood of Otisburg and started a slush fund so they had cash to burn. But then the Joker started disappearing for longer and longer stretches of time, and by the end of the second week, Harley realized for the first time in almost a year, she didn't know what he was doing. 

For most of that year, they were almost constantly in each others' company, so close that they rarely needed to discuss details, and trusting each other implicitly. Sure, they frequently had epic fights borne out of the Joker’s great capacity for being infuriating, Harley’s mercurial character, and their equally stubborn natures. But the trust between them was absolute, and no fight would ever shake that. He was Harley’s other half. A perfect reflection of her. An extension of her. _Part_ of her.

The third week back, she saw him twice, but she didn't want to admit to herself that she was _nervous_ about what was happening between them. She didn't want to admit that something had _shifted,_ that the trust she'd always had in him was eroding into uncertainty and suspicion, the kind she'd stubbornly clung to for so long before she finally gave in and let herself have what she wanted: _him_. She still wanted him, but she could feel him pulling away.

And she wanted to know _why._

The last time she saw him, a week earlier, it had been to give him money. He’d been aloof and closed off that night. Sphinx-like, like he used to be before _he_ accepted what was between them. Harley, upset and bewildered by his attitude, had shoved the bag of cash in his arms and marched off without a word, her heart thumping in her neck.

And that was it.

For the past week, Harley continued to put out feelers, connecting with what old contacts she could track down, or new ones she could make. She tried to keep herself busy so she wouldn't think about the fact that all she was really doing was waiting for the Joker to text her like a pathetic teenage girl. She resented him for turning her into this, and she hated herself for becoming so pathetic. It was the _uncertainty_ that did it to her. Like waiting on tenterhooks to see what he would say or do next. If he would tell her it was over, or tell her what was going on, or just keep... _drifting._

Harley believed nothing was certain, that all things were temporary. Everything aside from the Joker being her partner. Now that seemed so incredibly naive and romantic.

Romance was a commodity. Love was for _children_.

She continued to stew in silence, resentment building even more intensely with him sitting beside her, ignoring her. She realized they were driving east instead of north to the safehouse in Otisberg, and she almost asked to be let out of the car. She would happily take public transport back if it meant getting away from the horrible silence lingering between them. But she also wanted to know where the fuck he'd been the past three weeks, and even though she was pissed, a hopeful part of her thought tonight he might show her what he'd been up to, and she would find out he had a good reason.

 _Hope._ Hope was a bullshit concept. Good luck and will power count for a hell of a lot more.

 _God,_ she wished they'd never come back to this shit hole city.

Frost drove them to Gotham Heights, Marty O'Riley's old neighborhood. Marty had been the head of the Irish mob and one of their most loyal disciples until he was murdered by Holiday on Christmas Eve. His house in Gotham Heights sat on a street lined with ancient oak trees and big old houses, a neighborhood that used to be affluent and middle-class before the depression set in in the 70s. Now, most of these big old houses were either derelict or full of squatters and addicts. An ideal area for a safe house.

Harley's throat felt thick as they pulled into Marty's driveway, and she felt an unfamiliar pang of grief stab at her heart, though whether it was for Marty or the Joker or herself, she didn't know for sure. The car had hardly come to a stop when the Joker leaped out, loping up the driveway and into the garage while Harley remained in the car, staring after him, getting angrier, and angrier, and _angrier._

"You alright, doc?" Frost asked from the driver's seat, meeting Harley's eye in the rearview mirror.

The Joker had clearly taken a shine to Jonny Frost, and as Harley stared at him in the mirror, she considered the merits of holding a knife to his throat and demanding he tell her what the Joker had been up to. Or she could just kill him to annoy the Joker; that might make her feel better. But the idea that Frost knew things she didn't was too depressing, and she couldn't find the energy to threaten him, let alone kill him.

"I’m just peachy," Harley said coldly, pushing open her door and stepping out into the warm summer night air. She took a deep breath, preparing herself before she followed the same path the Joker took into the house through the garage, Frost following at what he likely judged was a safe distance.

Marty's house had always been old and musty, but as Harley stepped in from the garage she almost covered her mouth with her hand. It stank of gunpowder and cigarettes, which she was used to, but also vomit and piss, a uniquely disgusting combination. It smelled like men had been living there in close quarters. That wasn't enough to deter Harley though; she wanted to know what had been going on in this house without her, and the sounds of men guffawing boorishly in the kitchen told her she had been left out of quite a lot.

Harley had spent a lot of time in Marty's kitchen, planning and plotting and discussing personal matters. Like the rest of the house, it was outfitted in 1970s decor, with orange linoleum cabinets and an avocado green fridge. There was a large oak table, where Harley had spent many nights rolling out blueprints and maps, or simply sitting around drinking. The last time she'd been in this kitchen, she and Marty shared a bottle of gin and he admitted he had a girlfriend named Ginger who wanted to meet them. Harley had gently advised that he _not_ do that.

Now Marty was dead and his kitchen had become Harley's worst possible nightmare.

A group of henchmen and thugs were sitting around the table, smoking and drinking and sniffing up lines of purple powder. She recognized some of them. Lonnie Machin, a hacker. Bambi, a burly thug who looked like Mr Clean. Big Tuna, another big one, good in a fight but very stupid. The others she didn't know, but they were all sitting around bullshitting and drinking and doing lines of that purple powder like they were right at home.

And sitting at the head of the table was the Joker, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he talked out of the corner of his mouth to one of the henchmen Harley didn't know. Just making small talk, apparently. When he spotted Harley standing in the doorway, her expression probably close to livid, his eyes lingered on her for a few long seconds before he turned his attention to lighting his cigarette.

Harley spun around, feeling sick to her stomach. She could feel Frost watching her warily, but she ignored him, heading for the creaky staircase leading up to the house's upper floors. As she stomped up the steps, her heart pounding in her throat, those little threads of hope dissolved into a bitter rage, and beneath that, grief. Because if he was ignoring her in favor of hanging out in Marty's kitchen, drinking with a bunch of moronic henchmen, that could only mean one thing.

And the Joker wasn't exactly the type to sit her down for a breakup talk.

She kicked open the door to the bedroom they used to share and looked around, intending to ransack it for information. The bed was unmade, half of the sheets on the floor, and there was a duffle bag with black clothes spilling out of it, some of them Harley's. It didn’t appear to be lived in—so where the fuck _was_ he sleeping?—and the vomit and piss smell seemed to be relegated to the ground floor. Harley wrenched open the dresser drawers and side table, only finding things that had been there since before they left Gotham. Nothing to tell her what the Joker had been up to since they'd been back.

She huffed in frustration, starting to feel foolish on top of everything else, and stomped into the bathroom to throw water on her face and wash away the tacky warpaint.

There was a crusty towel already covered in red and black paint hanging over the radiator, and Harley dried her face with it as best she could before facing herself in the mirror.

She looked _pinched_.

The need to make a plan was almost overwhelming, and it hit her with an intensity Harley hadn't felt in so, _so_ long. She started by checking in on another recent development, shimmying out of her shorts as she sat on the closed toilet seat, and searching her underwear for spots of blood.

That was another joy Harley got to contend with. Almost a week earlier, she got her period for the first time in four years.

Four years earlier, when she'd been an upstanding member of society who made yearly trips to the OBGYN, she'd had a birth control implant placed in her upper arm. It stopped her getting pregnant, and stopped her getting her period, which meant those two biological issues had never been an issue while she was distracted by big things like blowing up kindergartens and whipping up riots in Guatemalan prisons. But it seemed the implant had a shelf life of four years, and now that it wasn't working, getting knocked up and getting periods were an issue again.

It was a small mercy that she hadn't had sex with the Joker in three weeks, dodging an epic bullet. That first splotch of blood in her underwear had nearly paralyzed her as she was forced to confront the idea of _pregnancy_ as a potential reality, let alone how the Joker would react to such a predicament.

 _Badly_ , she would guess. 

Harley pulled up her underwear and shorts before standing in front of the mirror again. She pressed her thumbs to her eyes, reminding herself that she was not pregnant and she would figure out a way to fix this one small biological issue. But first, she needed to make a plan.

"You're not lookin' so good, Harl."

Harley's head shot up, her eyes narrowing when she spotted the Joker lounging in the doorway, his head tipped to the side as he watched her. Then he chuckled, prodding his scarred bottom lip with his tongue.

"What?" Harley snapped.

" _You_ look like you wanna kill me," he informed her drily, and when Harley just stared at him incredulously he took a few lazy steps into the bathroom, closing the distance between them until he was looming over her, looking down at her through hooded eyes.

"What is going on?" Harley demanded before she could stop herself. "What are you up to?"

"What am I _up_ to?" the Joker's lips twitched into a shitty little grin, and it made Harley's blood boil.

"You heard me," she spat, deciding it was time she got some answers. "What the fuck was tonight all about? Why are you taking jobs from _Lucy?_ "

He clasped his hands behind his back and rolled his eyes out to the side, and for a moment Harley thought she might get an answer.

"Makin' any headway on... the _Riddler_?" he asked instead, his head tipping back so he was looking down at her appraisingly.

Harley glared up at him. ‘No’ was the answer. No, she wasn't making any kind of headway on the Riddler. By all appearances, he was a ghost. 

Her expression prompted the Joker to chuckle throatily, his mouth twitching up on one side like he found her frustration entertaining, or even cute, making Harley bristle. Then he laid one hand on the side of her neck, his thumb stroking the underside of her jaw as his eyes drifted over her face.

" _You_ just need to _relax_ ," he suggested, his voice low and raspy as his eyes settled on Harley’s lips. “Dontcha think?” he purred, his paint-smeared fingers drifting to the back of her neck, nudging her forward.

Harley's eyes widened in disbelief, unable to believe he wanted _sex_ after ignoring her for weeks. She slapped his hand away and shoved him hard in the chest. Despite his lean, lanky build, the Joker was _much_ stronger than he looked, and if he wanted to he could have blocked her path. Instead, he swayed to the side, allowing her to storm past him, out of the bathroom.

"Where are _you_ goin', huh?" he drawled after her.

Harley turned around to find he was leaning in the doorway again, watching her blankly, impossible to read.

"Tell me what's going on, J," she demanded, her throat feeling thick. "This is the last time I'm going to ask."

The Joker just rolled his eyes as if she was being unreasonable, and Harley swallowed a lump of disappointment, nodding once. The fact that he wouldn’t even engage her in a fight spoke volumes. 

"Fine," she said, spinning around and stomping over to the bedside table. She wrenched open the drawer and found the keys to the Ford Crown Victoria that had been parked on the street since before they left Gotham.

"Uh, _where_ are you going?" the Joker asked her again, sounding a little annoyed this time.

Harley stopped short, and when she turned around, she searched his face, one last time.

Nothing.

"Pam's in Melbourne," she said shortly. "I might go join her."

The Joker narrowed his eyes, his brow sinking into a deep frown that made the white pain crease. " _What?"_

"You heard me," Harley snapped, spinning around. She needed to _leave_.

She flung the bedroom door open, but before she could pass through it he was right behind her, slamming it shut and almost catching her fingers in it. He kept his hand pressed against the door, holding it shut and caging her in with his body as Harley whirled around to glare up at him.

"What the _fuck_ are you talkin’ about, huh?" he demanded roughly.

"None of your damn business," Harley shot back, shoving him hard in the chest to make him back off. But he was like a brick wall, completely solid and unmovable, trapping her this time.

"You gotta be _kidding_ me," he sneered down at her.

 _"Move,"_ Harley growled back at him, her heartbeat pounding in her throat. "Before I _make_ you move."

"Ya really wanna try that?" he scoffed, making Harley bristle that he would hold his physical advantage over her. "C'mon," he taunted her. " _Try it_."

Harley ground her teeth together. She wanted to call him an asshole and tell him to go fuck himself, but she knew that would only encourage him. He thrived on negative attention, and she wasn’t in the mood for a fight anymore. It would be too painful, not cathartic or satisfying, and she just wanted to _leave_. So she turned her head to the side, refusing to look at him as she tried to breathe evenly to slow her racing pulse.

She could feel the Joker staring at her, and she could imagine him prodding the scars inside his cheek with his tongue as he tried to work out what to do with her. But when Harley closed her eyes and released a heavy breath, something seemed to click into place for him and he took a step back, his hand falling away from the door. When she looked up, he was staring at her blankly, serious as death.

Harley shot him one last disappointed look before she turned to leave.

* * *

After three years of construction, Wayne Manor was almost fully restored to its original grandeur. Bruce didn't need a manor, but it was one of the last connections he had to his mother and father, and it had felt almost disrespectful not to rebuild in their memory. Besides, it wasn't just Bruce and Alfred anymore. Dinah was part of their small family unit now too, and Dinah had been especially keen for them to ‘redecorate’ the cave under the west wing...

At first, it had been strange and unfamiliar to work with another person, but Dinah quickly came to feel like the younger sister Bruce never had. She wanted justice and redemption, and she was thoughtful in everything she did, always choosing her words and actions carefully. She was a fierce warrior who had, on more than one occasion, kicked Bruce's ass. 

They'd all moved back into the manor around Christmas, right about when the Joker and Harley Quinn abruptly disappeared and a serial killer the papers called Holiday was on the loose. Holiday disappeared too, but not before conveniently taking out the heads of the Costa Nosa mob, the Russian mob, and the Irish mob too. 

A new kingpin never emerged from the rubble, allowing the new police commissioner, Mike Akins to clean house at the GCPD while Mayor Krol did the same at City Hall. The result was an all-time low for systemic corruption in Gotham. Gordon was still in play, now working as a private detective while his girlfriend Lieutenant Sarah Essen kept them in the loop on the goings-on at the MCU. 

That left the Riddler as the most immediate and pressing threat to the city, and thus far he hadn't proved himself as lethal as the Joker. But just because they hadn't had to call in the National Guard yet, didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Almost thirty people had been killed by his hand in less than four months, and if he wasn't contained soon, he could very well become a Joker-level threat.

There was also Jonathan Crane's recent escape from Arkham on the table, but compared to the Joker and the Riddler, Crane was a little fish who could be handled by the GCPD. He relied on others to make himself a threat, and without R'as al Ghul to send him the Tibetan blue poppies, Crane would be back in Arkham where he belonged soon enough.

With so much falling into place, Bruce had unexpectedly made time for something new: a girlfriend.

He first met Vicki Vale when she profiled him for the Gotham Globe Magazine, a supplement to the paper Wayne Enterprises now owned after buying up the publishing arm of the disgraced Kane Company. Bruce had been prepared to lay on the smug billionaire-playboy schtick for Vicki, who he was well aware had colluded with Harley Quinn, or at least been manipulated into publishing her propaganda. Bruce was also hyper-aware that she’d built her career off the back of trashing the Batman in the tabloids, which never did him any favors.

But in the quick conversation they had before the interview, he'd asked Vicki why she wasn't an investigative reporter anymore. She'd given him a sad smile and explained she'd trusted the wrong people and was better suited to her new role as the Globe Magazine's features editor.

That had softened Bruce’s opinion of her, and by the end of the interview, he found himself asking her out to dinner.

It wasn't quite 'serious' with Vicki yet, and 'girlfriend' may have been an overstatement when she was so busy with the magazine, and Bruce was busy fighting crime as the Batman. But they saw each other every week, and she would stay over at the manor as she had the night before. Actually, she’d been staying over more and more often lately...

"I'm too old to do a walk of shame," Vicki grinned, rising up on her tiptoes to kiss Bruce goodbye.

Her pale blonde hair was still damp from the shower they'd shared, secured over her shoulder with an elastic band, and her eyes were bright. She was beautiful, with a button nose and a knowing smirk that showed a hint of prominent canine teeth. She was smart, she was funny, she was worldly, and she was patient. Bruce was smitten.

He laughed softly. "I don't think it counts as a walk of shame if you're getting a ride in an Aston Martin."

"Oh, sure," she punched him on the arm playfully, still grinning. "That makes all the difference."

They shared another kiss, one that made Bruce feel a little _giddy_ in a way he hadn't felt before. He'd loved Rachel, but they never had a chance to be together. It had always been strained and sad with her, and they'd never experienced the simple joys of laughter and pleasure he'd discovered with Vicki. There was no pressure either. She had her secrets and he had his, and neither of them needed to know.

"The magazine wants me to go to this new member's club Downtown on Friday," Vicki rolled her eyes. "The Tobacconist's Club. Sure to be full of trust fund brigade and stockbroker types. Want to come and keep me company?"

“I actually already have an invite,” Bruce admitted, feigning a wince.

“Of course you do,” Vicki grinned, patting his cheek affectionately. “Prince of Gotham.”

“Ugh,” Bruce winced for real this time, making Vicki laugh.

“Do you get invited to _every_ rich-people event?” she teased him.

“I wasn’t really planning on going,” Bruce admitted, laughing softly. 

"The drinks will be strong and I'll be there," Vicki shrugged, thumbing a button on his shirt and offering him a smirk.

"Then I'll be there too," Bruce agreed, fighting back a dopy grin as he pulled her close to kiss her again.

The driver out front honked impatiently and Vicki pulled away with a forlorn sigh.

"Sext me if you get bored," she suggested, grinning.

Bruce laughed and shook his head. "Sure," he agreed.

"Such a _shy_ billionaire," Vicki teased him as she turned to leave. She looked back at him over her shoulder at the last moment, shooting him another smirk. "See you Friday, Bruce."

"See you Friday," he nodded, smiling.

When she was gone, Bruce allowed himself to sigh happily, his head falling back as he tried to tamp down the stupid grin splitting his face in half.

" _See you Friday, Bruce_ ," a high-pitched voice behind him taunted, and Bruce turned to see Dinah leaning against the banister, snickering at him.

Dinah had been skinny and scrappy when Bruce first met her, but after a year of consistently hearty meals and training, she was more athletically built now. She had warm brown eyes and ashy blonde hair cropped to her chin, the sides shaved in a trendy undercut. 

"So that's why you ditched me last night," she observed drily, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You know, you're _almost_ as funny as Alfred these days," Bruce shot back, following her into the palatial reception room adjoining the entry hall. "How's the studying going?" 

"Pointless," Dinah sighed, falling onto an antique love seat where a MacBook sat open beside a pile of books. "It's not like I'm actually going to college."

"Come on," Bruce raised his eyebrows appraisingly. "You don't want to spend the rest of your life in Gotham, do you?"

"You mean where I can protect people from terrorists and make sure the mob doesn't come back?" Dinah cocked her head to the side, looking deeply unimpressed. "Yeah, Bruce, I'm pretty sure that's more up my street than beer pong and sociology majors."

Bruce rolled his eyes and lowered himself onto the piano bench. 

In the year since Dinah had been living with him and Alfred, she'd gotten her GED. She was whip-smart and Bruce didn't want her to spend her life as an unappreciated vigilante putting her life in danger, even if that made him a hypocrite. With a little nudging from Alfred, Dinah had agreed to take some college-level classes online, and they were hoping with a little more nudging she'd agree to let Bruce have a few words with Princeton, his alma mater, to see about getting her enrolled.

The argument was she could go off and get some real-world experience, then come back if she felt compelled to, though Bruce would have preferred she go live in the real world instead of the shadows like he did.

He was a hypocrite, and he knew it, and Dinah regularly reminded him about it in her serious, droll way.

"Have you asked Vicki about Harley yet?" she asked cautiously, trying to sound like she didn't care. She obviously cared. Harley Quinn was Dinah's white whale and her primary motivation for becoming Black Canary.

"It's not really something that comes up in conversation," Bruce replied warily.

"Just ask her what she thinks about Harley disappearing," Dinah shrugged. 

"Harley hasn't been seen in over six months," Bruce pointed out. "She could be dead."

"She's not dead," Dinah countered darkly. "We would know if she was dead. And Vicki might know if she's alive."

Bruce looked down at his hands. He could appreciate the obsession. He felt similarly about the Joker. The difference was it was uniquely _personal_ for Dinah. She'd thought Harley was her friend and had protected her, and she still felt disgusted with herself for being manipulated by a psychopath.

But as far as anyone knew—and that included numerous known clown associates—the Joker and Harley Quinn were dead, or at least not Gotham's problem anymore.

"Well," Bruce said slowly, reluctantly. "I'll see what Vicki thinks about them disappearing"

"I know you really like her, I like her too," Dinah said, her face softening as she looked down at her laptop. "But Harley has a way of making people do what she wants." She lifted her eyes to Bruce's, her expression deadly serious. "She eats their souls, Bruce."

Bruce took a deep breath and sighed it out, knowing she was right.

"Alright," he agreed, rotating on the piano bench to pluck out three major chords. "But let's not get distracted from the Riddler," he added as the bookcase swung open, revealing a secret passage that led to the underground cave they used for training and storing crime-fighting-related items.

"Hey, _I_ wasn't the one getting laid when I could have been out hunting him down," Dinah teased, jumping to her feet and following Bruce into the passage.

"Oh, you’re _so_ funny," Bruce grinned, shaking his head as the bookcase closed behind them.

* * *

The sun had been up for a few hours, but the henchmen were still going, fresh bottles of whiskey and new bags of Blue Orchid—or BO as the _kids_ called it—appearing on the kitchen table beside overflowing ashtrays. That was one of the _many_ things this shit did to you, it kept you going for hours. It made you feel all _floaty_ , made you see shit, made you concentrate, made you horny, made you forget. The Joker tried it once for the sake of being thoroughly informed and could confirm it did all those things. Once was enough; he wasn't really one to _overindulge_.

Besides, it reminded him of something _much_ more interesting.

Something you didn't wanna be taking too much of _._

He hummed unhappily as he squinted into an empty pack of cigarettes, willing one to appear there. Bambi offered him one of his, and the Joker snatched it off him, collapsing back in his chair to fight with a disposable lighter until it finally sparked to life. He sighed out a cloud of smoke, letting his head fall back as he blinked up at the water-logged ceiling, half-listening to the idiots around him, which was the whole purpose of this fucking exercise anyway. Getting _information_ out of this pack of morons.

He was a _little_ bit drunk. The Joker had a strong constitution, which meant it took a lot to keep him hurt or sick, but it also took a lot to get him _tipsy_. Half a bottle of bourbon would do the job though, and after that little tiff with Harley, he had needed it.

She had _terrible_ timing.

Threatening to run off with Red to Australia or _wherever_ . He hadn't seen her look so _clenched_ in a long, long time, and it pissed him off that she was letting this get under her skin that way. 

Things in Gotham were _tense_ at the moment, requiring a gentle touch. He'd learned—but not quite mastered—that skill from her, his capacity to fly under the radar when necessary picking up the slack. Oh, it was _painful_ , but it was _necessary_ at the moment, and unfortunately, the Joker could not include Harley in his current venture.

He took another long drag off his cigarette, his mind turning to where the next one would come from. He'd been smoking almost non-stop since this shit started, and he was honest enough with himself to admit it wasn't just because things were tense, which he typically enjoyed and thrived off of, but also because excluding Harley felt... _wrong._

But his girl was ruthless. His girl was hard as _nails_ . She wasn’t _needy_ . She didn't need to be _reassured._

And yet here she was, pissed off at him and threatening to run off with Red.

He didn't really believe she would do it, and it pissed him off that she would even _threaten_ that...

But just _imagining_ her leaving made his goddamn _bowels_ clench.

She was infuriatingly stubborn when she wanted to be, and apparently, she'd decided that instead of trusting him, she would hate him. That went against the whole _nature_ of their partnership, and the Joker was bewildered to discover she would react this way. Their last encounter had been brief and impersonal. A cash drop-off in a back alley. She'd stormed off without saying anything, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, a sense of foreboding about how things were about to go down.

Then in the car on the way to the Iceberg Lounge she'd been silent and sullen, glaring at him like she was waiting for him to say something. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? What was she expecting? Shockingly, the Joker didn’t have the patience to play guessing games with his partner, nor was he the type to do what was _expected_ of him. 

It was all so… _disappointing_. 

Harley had a great capacity for moodiness, and it was frequently directed at him, mostly when he put himself in some kind of mortal peril she had to get him out of. That whole _machete_ incident in Venezuela, for example, and then the whole Guatemalan jail situation. They never used to fight until they got to Mexico when they’d had a disagreement about how long was too long to stay in bed recuperating from a gunshot wound. 

Though the make up sex that followed all that fighting and recuperation had been _great_. 

Intellectually, the Joker knew he should have tried to, like... _reason_ with her or something, but he was too annoyed, and it was _so_ disappointing that she needed it in the first place.

And now she was threatening to leave him.

Well, that was just too fucking bad. 

The Joker had a job to do, one he wanted to see through, and not even Harley Quinn could stop him.

* * *

Lucy turned the Venetian mask over in her hands, her brow furrowing as she examined it. The mask was painted gold with intricate enamel swirls, reminding her of an old-fashioned carousel. She hadn't chosen this mask for herself, the boss did, just like he controlled everything else. It ruined her peripheral vision, which she suspected was intentional, and it left bright red lines on her nose when she took it off, a less intentional consequence, she thought. Maybe. The boss had a preternatural sense for details.

The sun had risen a few hours earlier, and Lucy and Mario had been getting ready for bed when Lucy was summoned to the crypt. Their group normally met in the middle of the night, but once you were this far underground, where the darkness was complete and the rocky walls were damp, it didn't matter if it was night or day up above.

Lucy continued to examine her mask, wishing she hadn’t gone overboard with the Blue Orchid like she was doing more and more often lately. There wasn’t much of a comedown like other drugs, but once it wore off, reality settled back in, with all its problems to worry about and things to be scared of staring you in the face. And Lucy had much more to be scared of than the people dancing at her club. 

She laid the gold mask over her face, tying the silk ribbons behind her head before she pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her hair. A feeling of safety settled over her, the knowledge that she was hidden comforting. Hidden from everyone but the boss. She could understand the Batman and the Joker and the Riddler obscuring their faces the way they did; it gave you power.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the creaky old door leading into the crypt, where three people wearing cloaks and masks like hers were already waiting. 

They didn't always meet in the crypt. Sometimes they met in other spaces around the city, but always in darkness cloaking their small group. Their False Face Society.

Lucy took a deep breath as she took her place, trying to breathe through the lingering fog of drugs so she could concentrate.

The door creaked open again, and a man of medium build entered the room. Unlike their cloaked compatriots, he wore a suit and tie, and his mask was as black as obsidian, wrapping around his entire skull, only the sharp line of his jaw and the whites of his eyes visible.

He stood before them, spreading his gloved hands.

"My friends," Black Mask greeted them, his voice a low, electronic purr. "I have excellent news."

* * *

**A/N: *peeks between fingers***

**What do you think? Has this thing got some legs? :D**

**I just wanted to drop a thank you in here to everyone who engaged with me via reviews /comments/messages. I started getting really burnt out and almost gave up on this a few times, but then I’d get a notification from one of you fine folks, and I’m sooooo happy I got there in the end. Still experiencing a massive amount of self-doubt but whatever.**

**Updates on Sundays as per usual, usually just after midnight PST. I meant to make this shorter but it’s turned out to be about 24 chapters (+/-1, TBC) + an epilogue. I used to worry about length a lot, but I feel like so long as there isn’t loads of padding (hopefully) and things are moving it’s fine because this isn’t a book—it’s more like a serialized TV show or something.**

**With ‘The Harlequin’ my goal was for Harley & J to get together in an organic ‘normal’ way, and for her to develop into a badass villain on her own. The mission statement for this one was to give them an adversary that could genuinely take them down, and explore what Harley & J being vulnerable looks like. There are a lot more fun supporting characters from various Batman media (welcome Arthur Reeves from BTAS next week) for them to interact with, which may have contributed to this getting longer than I intended… but not as long as the original (probably)! **

**If you don’t have an AO3 or FFN account and want to subscribe for updates, follow me on tumblr and I can tag ya (Knit-wear-it). There you also find mood boards/casting and soundtracking for this story so if you find that annoying… never mind!**

**_Next: Harley struggles to find her feet in Gotham, reconnecting with some old and new friends as she begins to learn more about what happened while she was away._ **

**Please don’t be shy, I live for feedback, so engage with me on whichever platform you want. We all know the reviews/comments are what make us click on stories, and it genuinely helps me edit future chapters! Looking forward to hearing what you guys think of this first look :)**

**Xo**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Previously: The Joker accepts a job to kidnap Gotham’s District Attorney, and Harley is convinced he’s working on something behind her back. Meanwhile, Bruce and Vicki Vale are getting cozy while Dinah worries about Harley’s inevitable return._ **

_Theme: Jenny Hval - ‘Innocence is Kinky’ ([ Youtube](https://youtu.be/64e9HKXyUes)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2icSuRXqCPzwLzGQIvD4q3?si=4U6mawdVRI2OjfnXdypKtA))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

2.

* * *

How about a riddle?

_I am worshiped and I am hated_

_A prominent figure of flexible celebration_

_Most don't know me, but they all want to be me_

_What am I?_

Give up?

The Flugelheim Museum opened at 9 AM on Tuesdays. Francis Bacon's 'Figure With Meat' was on display on the fifth floor. The painting depicts a screaming, salivating pope posed between two halves of a butchered cow. It is at once horrific and _sensual._ Painted in 1954, it was a time characterized by post-world-war post-traumatic-stress, the threat of annihilation and extinction via nuclear war ever looming.

With this painting, Bacon forces you to decide who you are.

Are you as much a victim as that slaughtered animal hanging behind you?

Or are you the butcher, posing with your prey...

More impressive: the Flugelheim family paid 80 million dollars for this piece of canvas covered in oil. And _that_ made it something worth owning. _Especially_ when you were perpetually broke like Ed was.

Ed sat on a bench in front of Bacon's work, his arms crossed and his head tipped to the side as he examined the smears of brown and red paint. His strawberry blonde hair was hidden beneath a black Gotham Rogues baseball cap, and he wore one of his most prized possessions: a seafoam-green Christian Dior suit—linen, very expensive, _very_ chic. Ed had paired the suit with a white shirt and a floral tie—also Dior—and a pair of Chelsea boots—Tom Ford, _beautiful_.

On the ground beside Ed's feet sat a backpack containing a loaded Smith and Wesson—timeless, just like Clint Eastwood's piece in _'Dirty Harry'_ —as well as a paint gun and his signature bowler hat. There was just something so beautifully _bourgeois_ about a bowler hat that Ed couldn't resist. It said _Paris_ , it said _high brow_ , it said fashionable dandy strolling on the Champs-Élysées, and sipping sidecars at the Ritz.

Glancing around at the gallery's other patrons—a small group of Japanese tourists, a Goth girl, a young couple sipping green juice as they examined the art—Ed unzipped the backpack and exchanged his baseball cap for the bowler hat. Then, keeping his head down, desperately trying not to get paint on his new suit, he held up a cut-out piece of paper and sprayed a solid black rectangle over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Anticipation had been racing through him all morning, but it reached a fever pitch now, making Ed feel almost drunk as he slowly rose to his feet. It was always like this, the anticipation. Like sex, but better. Sex was so frequently disappointing, but through Ed's many performances as _The Riddler,_ he had discovered something far more addictive. And unlike other carnal pleasures, it was always, _always_ satisfying.

He _craved_ it.

He straightened his floral tie and examined the Bacon painting one more time. He liked it, _loved_ it even. He had to have it.

Also, it was worth a goddamn fortune _,_ and Dior was _not_ cheap.

Ed drew his gun and spun around to face his new victims, beaming wildly as they gasped in _horror._

Ohhhhhh, yes, Ed liked the sound of that.

And he _loved_ to put on a show.

* * *

Columbia was unbearably humid in May, and the rain was relentless that afternoon, beating against the shingled roof like gunfire.

Harley's eyes drifted over peeling colonial wallpaper, the wrought iron bed frame, and the small television perched on an antique dresser, playing a muted soccer game. Outside, beyond the staccato of rain, she could hear the noisy sounds of downtown Bogota filtering in through the open window of the small hotel room they'd been hiding out in for a few days.

She sighed and rolled onto her back to look up at the Joker sitting beside her, naked and smoking a rolled cigarette as he watched the soccer game, or at least stared at the fuzzy screen while he thought about something else.

"I just had a funny dream," she mumbled sleepily, drawing his attention.

He raised an eyebrow at her, taking a long drag off his cigarette, the burning paper crackling.

"You fucked me in the session room at Arkham," Harley explained, smirking as she listened to him chuckle.

"Did I uh, bend ya over the table and call you a _naughty_ doctor?" he drawled, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a _woosh_.

"No," Harley grinned up at him. "Up against the wall."

His scarred bottom lip jutted out, and he made a face to suggest this was pretty boring as far as sex dreams went, making Harley laugh.

"Come here," she insisted, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him down to her.

He shot her an amused look and crushed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray, then swiftly rolled on top of her, one of his legs sliding between hers. He braced his elbow beside her head and carded a hand through her tangled blonde hair, looking amused. 

Harley pulled his face down to hers, kissing him deeply as she locked her knees around his leg, and she felt his chest rumble against hers with a throaty laugh.

"You _greedy_ slut," he teased her slyly, making Harley laugh helplessly at their stupid inside joke.

She started to reply when the sound of rain pounding outside abruptly quieted, and the small details of the hotel room began to fade, the colors leaking away like dye in the wash. J's lips were still on hers, the familiar feeling of his scars lingering a moment longer. Then he was gone too, ripped away, leaving her with nothing.

Harley's eyes snapped open as the dream evaporated and reality came roaring back in.

She was at a safe house in Gotham, not a hotel room in Bogatá. And she was alone.

She blinked around at the bedroom she currently occupied, a shabby chic ode to being as dull as humanly possible, just like the rest of Samantha Pierce's apartment, the original owner of Harley's safe house.

Harley rolled onto her back and scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to push away the feelings attempting to crack the wall she'd constructed to get her through the next few days while she figured out what the fuck she was going to do without the Joker. That was clearly the direction things were going, and Harley needed a _plan_.

Before Harley became the Joker's partner, she'd spent the majority of her life trying to be what she thought she was _supposed_ to be. First, as a celebrated psychologist, then as the most powerful woman in Gotham's underworld. But none of it made her happy. It was only with the Joker beside her that she found the strength to let go of all the bullshit and accept a chaotic world for what it was, and her fluid place within it. It brought her _peace._

Not that she was perfect at it, or that she existed in some zen state of chaos at all times. She no longer let what she was _supposed_ to do guide her, but she still had a teensy-weensy problem with needing to be in control, something the Joker's presence helped keep in check. It also infuriated him and spurred some of their most epic fights.

But now he was fading from the equation, and Harley needed to figure out where she belonged and how she was supposed to exist without him.

A uniquely devastating thought that made her chest feel tight.

"Stop it," she muttered, taking a deep breath before she hauled herself out of bed and staggered into Samantha's kitchen.

From what Harley could tell, Samantha had been a party girl working in the fashion world before she mysteriously disappeared. The shabby chic stylings of the bedroom stretched out into the open plan living room-kitchen, with its wrought-iron wine racks and faux-antique furnishings and floral accents absolutely everywhere. The walls were hung with prints of Audrey Hepburn and Madonna, and the closet was full of stylish frocks and fashionable shoes. Harley had taken to wearing what she needed, helping herself to pajamas and lingerie and toiletries and anything else that struck her fancy.

She made a cup of coffee with Samantha's Keurig, replaying the events of the night before despite her best efforts to pretend it hadn't happened. She closed her eyes, focusing on the noisy grinding of the coffee maker as it poured boiling water through the little pod, willing thoughts of the Joker far, far away.

The Riddler. Focus on the Riddler.

He'd attacked the Flugelheim Museum just that morning, so Harley settled onto the couch with her coffee to watch the GCN anchors and pundits discuss the attack. It was his second gallery hit in two weeks, the first being the Gotham Museum of Modern Art a week earlier. That night he'd broken in and stolen a Jackson Pollock with the help of a group of thugs wearing burlap sacks over their faces—a nod to the Scarecrow's recent escape from Arkham, the pundits suggested.

But this time, the Riddler acted alone, sneaking in a firearm and shooting his way out with a Francis Bacon work tucked under his arm.

And once again, he'd left a riddle behind.

_I am worshiped and I am hated_

_A prominent figure of flexible celebration_

_Most don't know me, but they all want to be me_

_What am I?_

According to the cryptologist on GCN, the answer was 'celebrity,' though they were struggling to understand what that _meant._

Listening to the media argue over the purpose behind the Riddler's brain teasers was unbearable, but Harley forced herself to watch it. She told herself she was gathering data, though nothing the pundits had to say was particularly revealing. The Gothamite's Steve Lombard gave his spiel blaming the Batman for masked villains, this time with an endorsement for Hamilton Hill; a businessman running for Mayor who promised to get rid of all masks—vigilante, villain or otherwise. Harley was starting to zone out when they brought on a familiar handsome face. Hill's campaign manager, Arthur Reeves.

Reeves was a city-council-member-turned-political-consultant whom Harley had been aware of back when Sofia Falcone was running the city. He'd always been against the Dent Act, and Harley always suspected he had a few crooked inclinations. With the Joker ignoring her and a lot of free time on her hands, Harley met up with Reeves a few times. First down back alleyways, then for drinks at the Stacked Deck, their business quickly shifting into a more friendly arrangement. Reeves was an unapologetic scumbag who managed to toe the line of being too-bold, and Harley enjoyed him.

Once Reeves finished pitching Hill as the best remedy for masked freaks, GCN brought on a pop-psychologist to discuss the Riddler's 'obsession' with Abstract Expressionism. Harley rolled her eyes at the weak psychoanalysis and shuffled back to Samantha's bedroom to change into leggings and sneakers, desperate for a distraction from her thoughts.

Samantha's condo sat on a well-manicured street dotted with middle-class homes and cute apartment complexes in the north Gotham neighborhood of Otisburg. Harley took off at a jog, forcing a smile for an old couple sitting out on their lawn chairs when they offered her wrinkled, neighborly waves. It was an outrageously 'normal' part of town for the Joker and Harley Quinn to hide out in, which was, of course, part of its appeal. The Joker had perfected the art of blending in, playing characters that allowed him to sneak around in broad daylight despite his scars. Harley was less easy to identify, and she has always been a capable liar, but she had learned from him how to blend in thoroughly. To become invisible in a crowd. To _perform._

When the Joker was admitted to Arkham, Harley diagnosed him as a pathological liar, but in reality, he was almost pathologically truthful. A man of his word, an ironic badge of honor. But he drew a line between dishonesty and performance, and _God_ , did he love to perform. That included the stories about how he got his scars. Harley had heard hundreds of them as he taunted their victims. But she was the only person alive who knew what really happened.

Harley grit her teeth and picked up her pace, pushing herself to run faster so she would focus on the blood pumping through her heart instead of the Joker.

Exercise used to be something she relied on to keep herself in check. Gymnastics had been a healthy outlet for her as an overachieving teenager stuck in the foster care system. And then as a 'safe' way to distract herself as an adult dissatisfied with her life. But a 'healthy outlet' wasn't something Harley needed when she had the Joker. Not with life as fulfilling and shamelessly brazen as theirs was together.

Harley felt her eyes start to sting, and her throat grew thick as a sob got stuck somewhere around her lungs. She held it back, putting her head down and forcing her body to work harder. Focusing on the slap of her sneakers against the concrete instead of the slow spread of desolation creeping through her. The idea that he was no longer _hers_ made her want to scream into the sun and rip her hair out by the root. Trying to envision life without him felt like standing on the edge of an infantine abyss; the promise of falling through it alone impossible to comprehend when she'd convinced herself he'd be there beside her.

When she ran past the old couple a third time, Harley caught them staring at her, looking concerned. Obviously, because sprinting around the block looking like she was about to burst into tears hardly counted as blending in. Feeling paranoid and pathetic, her cheeks flushed, Harley ran back to Samantha's apartment, looking over her shoulder as she unlocked the front door.

A phone was ringing when she stepped over the threshold, prompting Harley to slam the front door and bolt across the apartment into the bedroom. She snatched up the encrypted smartphone ringing on the bedside table and stabbed at its buttons to answer the video call before she missed it.

Pam's smiling face appeared on the phone's screen. She was wearing a baseball cap with _GREENPEACE_ stitched across its front, her dark red hair cropped to her shoulders in a practical bob, her emerald eyes sparkling puckishly.

"Hey!" she grinned.

"Hey," Harley forced a weak smile as her eyes started to sting again, this time in relief. Pam had been on a boat in the Coral Sea of the coast of Australia for two weeks, and Harley didn't realize until that moment how badly she missed her friend. "How was the reef?"

"Perfect," Pam smirked, looking pleased with herself. "Mr Prime Minister has been _very_ receptive to my suggestions."

"So inception's really working, huh?" Harley asked, lowering herself onto the bed and kicking off Samantha's sneakers.

"The perfume I made helps," Pam explained cheerfully. "I think we can expect a _stirring_ speech at the UN next week." She sighed happily. "How's Gotham?"

"Oh, uh, not great," Harley admitted, the stinging behind her eyes returning.

Pam's face immediately darkened.

"What did that fuckboy do now?" she demanded, her eyes blazing when Harley didn't immediately answer. _"Harley?"_

"I think," Harley cringed—saying it out loud felt too real. "I think it's over," she said numbly.

Pam's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything, apparently stunned into silence. Harley couldn't do anything but nod slowly, and Pam eventually found her voice.

"Well, what the fuck happened?" she sputtered. "Did he hurt you? If he hurt you, I swear to God, Harley..."

"He's got something on the side, and he's hiding it from me," Harley sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face.

"The Joker is _cheating_ on you?" Pam looked aghast.

"No, he's _working_ on something without me," Harley explained miserably. "He's _up_ to something," she scowled.

"Well... _fuck_ him," Pam scoffed, indignant on Harley's behalf. Then she frowned, looking conflicted. "Hang on, have you tried talking to him?"

"He's not really the sit-down and talk things out type," Harley said darkly, remembering the night before. "But when I asked him, he wouldn't answer."

"Look, you know I can't stand him," Pam said hesitantly. "But are you sure you're not being..." She made a face. "You know... a little rash?"

"Last night was the first time I spoke to him in a week," Harley said bitterly.

"A week? Harley..." Pam trailed off, her eyes turning sympathetic. "You know a week isn't that long, right? I mean, everything was fine last time I spoke to you, and you know you can be kind of..." She trailed off again, reluctant to continue.

"Kind of what?" Harley narrowed her eyes.

"You can be kind of co-dependent," Pam said, as kindly as possible. " _Both_ of you."

"Co-dependant?" Harley bristled.

"Yes," Pam said firmly. "I know you guys like... _thrive_ off of how intense you are together." She rolled her eyes, making Harley scoff. "I'm not belittling it," Pam insisted. "But you're together _constantly._ Maybe he just needs some space. Maybe you do too."

"Some _space?"_ Harley frowned, bewildered _._ "Don't people usually say they want space when they want to break up?"

"I find it hard to believe J is _ghosting_ you, Harley," Pam sighed. "And as much as I would love you to dump his ass, I also don't want to see you torturing yourself just because your boyfriend is terrible at communicating."

"So, what do I do?" Harley demanded, exasperated.

"Do what you came back to Gotham to do," Pam encouraged. "Find the Riddler."

Harley frowned down at Samantha's white linen bedspread, knowing Pam was right, at least about keeping herself busy.

"Aside from the Joker being an asshole, which is not a surprise, by the way," Pam continued. "What else is going on?"

"I got my period," Harley said moodily.

"Don't you have one of those implant thingies in your arm?" Pam scrunched up her nose.

"It stops working after four years," Harley sighed. "I'm _fertile_ again."

"Well, that's an easy fix," Pam shrugged. "Go get a new one."

"My health insurance isn't exactly up to date," Harley pointed out. "And the last thing I want is to go to the Pill Man for birth control."

"Go to a clinic, you moron," Pam rolled her eyes. "One of your greatest strengths is your ability to hide in plain sight. There has to be one in the Narrows where you can get it taken care of. Worst-case scenario, the doctor recognizes you, and you threaten to kill their family if they don't give you medical attention."

"Yeah, that's true," Harley agreed uncertainly. She thought about the old couple staring at her from their lawn chairs, her erratic behavior anything but 'hiding in plain sight.'

When she looked back at the phone screen, she could see Pam watching her warily, worrying about her.

"Listen, why don't you go for a drink with Bullock or that Reeves guy," Pam suggested. "You just need to have a little _normal_ fun with people who aren't the Joker."

"Maybe," Harley agreed reluctantly, remembering very similar advice the Joker had given her a long, long, _long_ time ago.

_That poor Dr Quinzel. She just needs some fun._

* * *

Vicki Vale's new office was on the tenth floor of the Gotham Globe's headquarters in Midtown, a mini-skyscraper hiding in the shadows of Wayne Tower and the Flatiron Building. The powers that be moved Vicki out of the news pool and up to the tenth floor when she requested a transfer to the Globe Magazine the previous fall, claiming wanted to do more in-depth profiles. When she was promoted to Features Editor, they gave her a corner office complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and squashy white couches for meetings and brainstorming sessions.

The pay was still shitty, but that was working in the media for you.

Did she miss the thrill of the chase? That tingling sixth sense that a good story was begging her to look into it? Kind of. But she felt safer on the tenth floor commissioning puff pieces on celebrities and rich people.

 _Everyone_ was safer with Vicki on the tenth floor, where her ambition wouldn't lead to terrorist propaganda being printed in the paper.

These days, her biggest problems were relegated to deadlines and flakey staff members, like the magazine's in house photographer, Alexander Knox. He was chubby and boisterous, with a thick head of red hair, and he always seemed to have a doughnut in one hand and a camera in the other. Vicki could never tell which interested him more.

"Vale, you heard the news?" Knox shoved his head into Vicki's office, not bothering to knock. "The Riddler attacked the Flugelheim Gallery this morning."

Vicki sat back in her desk chair and folded her arms, leveling Knox with a dubious look. "Aren't you supposed to be at a shoot, Alex?"

"Aw, c'mon, Vale. Lemme go see if I can get anything," Knox grinned. He took a huge bite out of his doughnut and sending crumbs flying. "This is once in a lifetime stuff!" he insisted, his words muffled.

"That isn't your job," Vicki countered, raising one eyebrow. "The picture desk needs those shots by tomorrow. Now get your ass Uptown before I ask for a new snapper."

"Alright, alright, _jeez,"_ Knox rolled his eyes. "Ya know, considering your old beat at the Gazette covering masked freaks, I'm surprised you aren't more interested in the Riddler."

"I think we're all exhausted of masked freaks," Vicki said drily. Then before she could stop herself, "What was the riddle this time?"

"Something about celebrities," Knox shrugged. "He killed three people getting a painting out of there."

"Shit," Vicki frowned, the urge to look up the riddle prickling the back of her neck. But she resisted. Instead, she grabbed her phone and shot Knox a pointed look. "I need those portraits by 9 AM tomorrow. And don't skimp on the photoshop this time. I got hell from Ivania Dumas's publicist because you didn't make her skinny enough."

"Fine, fine," Knox grumbled, shoving the last of his doughnut in his mouth as he wandered out of her office.

Alone again, Vicki glanced at the spreadsheet in front of her, full of deadlines and release schedules and print dates. She tongued one of her prominent canine teeth thoughtfully, indulging in a moment of self-doubt. Was she being a masochist and punishing herself with this job? Punishing herself for trusting Harley Quinn, and being blinded by ambition?

But Harley Quinn was dead, Vicki reminded herself, as she did so often.

She stood and moved to stand in front of the window, gazing down at the Midtown traffic as she took a deep, cleansing breath and reminded herself how good her life was. She had a great job, great friends, and a _wonderful_ boyfriend. She smiled as she unlocked her phone.

 _What are you wearing?_ she texted Bruce.

Three bubbles immediately appeared on the screen as Bruce typed out a response, making Vicki's smile grow.

_Chinos, of course._

She snorted, her face splitting into a grin at the dry, slightly droll wit she'd come to adore in Bruce. He hid it well when they were in public, and it had taken some gentle probing to find the kind, affable man beneath all that fake smarm. He still had secrets, that was clear too, but for once, Vicki wasn't interested in uncovering every last kernel of truth. With Bruce, she was content to know that she might not know everything about his past, just as he didn't know everything about hers.

 _Are we still on for tomorrow night?_ He asked.

_Pick me up at 8 ;)_

* * *

Harley spent the remainder of the afternoon following Pam's advice, using Samantha's laptop to research the Riddler, making notes like she would have at Arkham as she attempted to develop a psychological profile for Gotham's en vogue villain of the moment.

Thus far, the cops had yet to find any fingerprints or DNA they could concretely tie to the Riddler, though they found plenty for his henchmen. The MCU’s spokesperson described them as 'known Gotham criminals.’ Harley translated this to mean your average muscle-for-hire thugs who'd done time at Blackgate. That meant the Riddler had access to Gotham's underbelly if he wasn't using first-timers. Though as far as Harley was aware, it was still up for debate who controlled the muscle in Gotham these days.

More important was the fact that in just under four months, the Riddler had killed thirty people, stolen numerous invaluable objects, robbed multiple banks, and whipped up enough fear among the general populace to get the Batman on his tail. Yet he _still_ hadn't been caught.

The Joker's first 'reign of terror' lasted two weeks.

Granted, he'd done much more fundamental damage to Gotham's psyche and its hospitals in those two weeks.

In truth, the only thing Harley had learned about the Riddler since returning to Gotham was that he was more of a ghost than she'd originally given him credit for. Everything else she'd understood the moment she laid eyes on him in newsprint. He was an attention-seeker of the highest caliber; he lacked empathy or remorse for his actions; and he was a copycat with no message of his own, who _desperately_ needed to be taken down a few pegs.

Most of all, Harley had known he would be a challenge to hunt. She always preferred a challenge to an easy mark. A worthy adversary was something she and the Joker actively sought out—it was one of the primary things that motivated them, right up there with living freely and chaotically in any way they chose.

Harley just hadn't expected to be hunting the Riddler alone.

She also dropped Arthur Reeves a text. Thus far, they'd met at the Stacked Deck and the Grey Dove, criminal establishments where Reeves stuck out like a sore thumb with his all-American good looks and three-piece suits. So Harley suggested the only respectable bar she knew of, a wine bar Uptown where she'd once met a friend in another lifetime.

She spent a full hour attempting to comb the knots out of her hair after months of neglecting it, resorting to using scissors for the more difficult matting that refused to come out. When she'd finished, her hair fell half-way down her back, sun-streaked and looking like she'd taken a machete to it, prompting her to tie it back in a low bun to not draw attention to herself.

She confronted Samantha's closet next, choosing an emerald green sundress and low-heeled, strappy sandals. Then she added a black headband from Samantha's dresser, hoping it would make her look more normal. She applied a flick of black eyeliner and some baby-pink lipstick, then threw the contents of her fanny pack into one of Samantha's handbags and called a cab.

Uptown south-of-the-park was a trendy neighborhood full of cafe-slash-galleries and cocktail bars, along with a few blink-and-you'll-miss-the-mobsters establishments like the Iceberg Lounge and the Cheetah Bar. Reeves was waiting for Harley outside the wine bar on the main drag, his navy blue suit and tie pristine after a day of campaigning for Hamilton Hill.

Reeves was in his mid-thirties, exceptionally tall and very handsome with a square jaw and straight white teeth. His fair hair was swept neatly to the side, and he always wore an American flag pin on his lapel, which he described as 'part of the job' when Harley asked about his patriotism. He was impeccably clean-cut on the outside, but fantastically slimy, and Harley found his honesty about being a scumbag entertaining. He wasn't bad to look at either.

"Ann Smiley," he greeted her with a brilliant white grin, looking delighted as he examined her costume change. From dirty Eastside criminal to a nice Uptown girl. "Yikes, you clean up good, huh?"

"Reeves," Harley greeted him, already amused. She placed her hand on his arm and lifted her face for him to kiss her on the cheek, standard Uptown practice for greeting friends.

When she pulled back, Reeves smirked down at her, obviously feeling smug that he was being invited to help keep her identity a secret from the unsuspecting citizens around them.

"C'mon, let's get a drink," he suggested, laying a hand on the small of her back and guiding her into the wine bar.

The bar was trying too hard to look like a Provencal wine cave, with oak barrel tables and garlic bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The lighting was low and moody, and it was packed with stylish twenty and thirty-somethings swigging Bordeaux blends while they tried to hear each other over experimental Jazz.

"What're you having?" Reeves asked once they were seated at the bar, his smirk still firmly in place. “Red, white, rosè?”

"I don't care," Harley shrugged, looking around the room, instinctively searching for signs of trouble. But it was just a boring collection of young-professional upper-middle-class types without a care in the world. It was like they were _waiting_ for her to do something to interrupt their perfect lives.

"Alright, but what do you _like_ to drink?" Reeves pressed, leaning forward gamely, his knee pressing against Harley's under the bar.

"I like gin martinis, extra dry," Harley admitted, feeling like she was revealing something oddly personal.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Reeves winked and braced an elbow on the lacquered bar top, getting the bartender's attention. "Can we get a bottle of that 15' Malbec? Thanks."

"So you're into _wine_ , huh?" Harley asked, accepting a globe-shaped glass of red wine.

"Hey, I'll drink anything," Reeves corrected smoothly, clinking his glass against hers. "But in my business, you've gotta be able to mingle with the fancy people."

"What is it with privileged people always thinking they're not the elite ones," Harley mused.

"I didn't say I wasn't privileged," Reeves countered slyly. "I have plenty of money, but my tastes skew a little…" He caught Harley's eye and flashed her a roguish grin. " _Unsophisticated."_

Harley rolled her eyes, feeling he'd made her point for her.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure tonight?" Reeves continued cheerfully. "I have to say, I was surprised you wanted to meet up in this part of town."

"I needed a change of scenery," Harley said evasively. "Besides, you stick out too much on the Eastside."

"And yet you manage to blend in wherever you go," Reeves observed suavely. "I almost didn't recognize you."

"That's kind of the point," Harley deadpanned.

"And where is Mr J tonight?" Reeves asked, a little more cautiously. "Is he blending in too?"

Harley took a few healthy sips of wine, pushing away the painful pang that came with being reminded of the Joker.

"He's got plans tonight," she shot back coyly, like she knew something Reeves didn't. Even though really, she had no idea where the Joker was or what he was doing.

"Good thing I'm here with you," Reeves offered her a lascivious smirk, his knee knocking against hers beneath the bar again. "You'll keep me safe, won't you, _Ann?"_

Harley rolled her eyes and fought back a smile. She wondered if Reeves was a nihilist as well as a corrupt opportunist.

"And where is Mrs Reeves tonight?" she countered.

"Helen's probably knocking back a few chardonnays with her friends at the club," he shrugged carelessly, topping up both of their glasses. "But if you and Mr J are ever up for a double date, just let me know."

"A double date?" Harley laughed despite herself. "You would not survive that."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Reeves chuckled. "Let me guess; it would include a bank robbery?"

Harley shrugged, and Reeves narrowed his eyes playfully.

"Hostage situation with the cast of _Made In the Diamond District_?" he tried again, making Harley throw her head back and laugh.

"Closer," she grinned at him.

"Alright," Reeves smoothed a hand over his jaw and eyed Harley thoughtfully. "Hostile takeover of a major Gotham corporation?"

"Too complicated," Harley wrinkled her nose and waved her hand. "And _boring_."

"Hamilton's forced through a few hostile takeovers," Reeves pointed out wryly. "It's the most exciting shit gets in the business world."

"My world's already more exciting than that," Harley smirked.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Reeves grinned, topping up their glasses again.

"So, what's new with Hamilton Hill and the world of politics?" Harley asked, clinking her glass against his.

"Fundraising, endorsements, media appearances," Reeves shrugged affably. "Boring stuff like trying to get Bruce Wayne to tell the world how much he loves Hamilton."

"Bruce Wayne, problematic billionaire-playboy," Harley mused. She thought back to the hour or so she'd spent with Wayne some two years earlier when she'd still been working at Arkham.

"Do you know him?" Reeves squinted at Harley, and she scoffed.

"What do you think?" she shot Reeves an amused look. "Why is Wayne's endorsement so important to Hill?"

"Wayne Enterprises is the biggest corporation in Gotham," Reeves explained. "And one of the biggest in the world. Hamilton's a business guy first and foremost. He wants those endorsements, and he's gonna get them, one way or another."

"What counts as another?" Harley smirked.

"Drugs, alcohol, girls," Reeves smirked right back at her. "Wayne'll have something naughty in his closet. It's only a matter of time before we find it."

"How wonderfully ruthless of you," Harley grinned. 

"I'll take that as high praise coming from you, Ms _Smiley_ ," Reeves shot back cheerfully. "You know, you should come to the Tobacconist's Club sometime."

"The Tobacconist's Club?" Harley raised an eyebrow at him over her glass. "Never heard of it."

"A member's club Downtown," Reeves waggled his eyebrows at her. "Invite only."

"Sounds boring," Harley rolled her eyes, imagining a swath of wealthy men in smoking jackets congratulating each other on their successes.

"Think of it as role-playing," Reeves offered her a lascivious grin. "Have a night out where no one knows who you are."

"No one knows who I am right now," Harley pointed out, gesturing up and down the bar at the unsuspecting patrons, none of them realizing there was a terrorist in their midst.

"These people are boring," Reeves waved his hand dismissively, the wine loosening his tongue. "Only Gotham's most powerful men and women get an invite to the Tobacconist's Club. That's where you belong _."_

"I'll keep it in mind," Harley agreed mildly. She wondered if some time with Gotham's wealthiest citizens might open doors to more information on the Riddler, or just more information in general. Those people were never as squeaky clean as they liked to pretend they were.

She drained the rest of her glass and dropped it on the bar top, already feeling pleasantly buzzed.

"So," she sighed, softening her expression as she leaned toward Reeves, intending to get some dirt on him just in case she needed it. "Tell me more about Mrs Reeves. I'm just _dying_ to meet her."

* * *

The Mega-Mart in the University District carried just about anything legal you could hope to buy, and it was open twenty-four hours. Jonny Frost had been surprised to learn a majority of the supplies they needed could be purchased there, though he'd watched enough TV when he was in the joint to know you shouldn't buy everything in one place. Not if you didn't want the pigs to catch on. That didn't seem to bother the Joker, but nothing _ever_ bothered him. He existed in a state of unyielding confidence, the concept of being caught never even occurring to him.

It might sound crazy, but that confidence inspired Frost in a way he'd never known he could feel before. A long time ago, before the bad behavior that got him thrown in prison in the first place, Frost had been a soldier. But after two tours of Iraq and all the horrific things he'd seen there, he'd realized it was a futile fight driven by greed, not freedom. He’d realized he'd been sold a lie.

War was messy; humans were messy; freedom was messy. The Joker understood that better than anyone Frost had ever met.

After the Joker and Harley disappeared, Frost found himself at a loose end. The Irish mob was in tatters with Alexandra Kosov and the Odessa gang taking over the Eastside. Meanwhile, a bloody power-struggle ripped apart the Russian mafia, aided in part by the Batman's systematic shut down of the drug trade. There was plenty of work for a guy like in Frost in a climate like that, but he opted to go straight. He got himself a decent job at a bar Downtown. The kind of place that still paid for protection but didn't actively cater to the dying breed of mafioso-types.

But then the Joker showed up four weeks earlier looking for muscle, and Frost leaped at the opportunity to join him. And it had been one wild fuckin' ride ever since.

Now Frost found himself in the Mega-Mart at 2 AM, squinting at a plastic container under the fluorescent lights. He was trying to remember if he was looking for polydicyclopentadiene or polyvinylidene, or if either one would do the job. There was only one container big enough for what they needed, and it only came in fluoride-blue polyvinylidene, so Frost hauled it off the shelf with a grunt and dropped it on the linoleum floor. He frowned as he relived their first fuck up with this stuff. That was not something he wanted to repeat.

Frost glanced up and down the aisle, checking for other customers, then stepped into the container and lowered himself down, trying to fit his massive frame into the confines of the blue plastic. Satisfied it was big enough, he dragged the container up to the check out aisle and paid for it in cash.

Out in the parking lot, he caught sight of the Joker smoking out of the window of the old station wagon they'd been driving for a few weeks now.

Without the warpaint—as some of the boys called it—the Joker looked pretty close to a normal guy; a good-looking guy, even with the scars. Unless he looked right at you. Then you saw that disconcerting gleam in his eyes, the one that made most guys—including Frost—squirm when it hit you just how inhuman he could be. Inhuman was a good word for it, or maybe _wild_ was better. That was what the Joker's eyes reminded Frost of—a wild animal. It was in the way he moved too, weirdly graceful like a cat when he wanted to be, though sometimes he carried himself more like a strutting peacock. One who would rip your guts out if given half a chance. But it was when he was really in a hurry, coming at you in full force, that he was like a big, loping tiger, ready to tear you apart limb from limb.

Frost knew lots of killers, and he knew lots of guys that enjoyed killing, but the Joker was a different breed entirely. It was like there was this energy bursting out of him, driving him to do what he did, even if it didn't make sense in the short term. But there was always a reason.

And then there was how he'd been with Harley that day they were hunting Holiday. The Joker seemed to glide around her like he was vibrating right off the ground, almost more intense than when he was killing a guy. And Harley has been the same, beaming and graceful when she looked at the Joker, but _only_ for the Joker. With everyone else, she was ice cold. Even when she pretended to be sweet to you, there was a chilly, _mean_ layer beneath it. But with a face like hers, most people ignored that meanness. They preferred to think she was as sweet as she pretended when she turned those baby blues on you. And from what Frost had seen, those people usually came to regret underestimating her.

Frost wasn't much of a talker, but a few times after too many whiskeys, he'd had to hold his tongue so he wouldn't ask the boss about Harley. It didn't make much sense pushing her away like he was doing. Frost had seen the look on her face when she'd left the safe house the night before. It was the look a woman got when she was feeling betrayed and scorned, and it was unnatural seeing it on Harley Quinn.

But the Joker had his reasons, and it wasn't Frost's job to question him. Not was it his job to offer relationship advice. He was hardly an expert, as his ex-wife would enthusiastically attest to.

It would be a damn shame if the Joker lost a girl like Harley over a job.

Frost opened the station wagon's trunk and pushed the massive blue plastic tub inside, then slammed it shut and circled to the driver's side. He slid behind the wheel and glancing at the Joker warily

"You alright, boss?" he asked, respectfully.

"Oh, I'm just _peachy_ ," the Joker sneered, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window.

Frost hoped the Joker and Harley made up soon. It was obvious the boss was miserable without her.

* * *

After two more bottles of that 15' Malbec with Reeves, plus many successful attempts to make him squirm, Harley made her excuses and headed back to her safe house. She stayed up late reading opinion columns about the Riddler, finding most theories infuriatingly obtuse. The media framed him as a replacement for the Joker, like Gotham had exchanged one deranged masked villain for another. But that was _so_ far off the mark, and only served to make Harley more determined to reveal the Riddler as the copycat coward he was.

But before she could do that, she had to _find_ him.

In the wee hours of the morning, she passed out on the couch and woke up that afternoon to a text from Detective Bullock.

 _Need to see u ASAP,_ it read.

Harley frowned, remembering the last time Bullock had direly needed to see her. Marty had turned up dead.

 _Who's dead now?_ she wrote back.

 _Lots of people,_ Bullock replied.

Harley raked a hand through her hair, sighing before she agreed to meet Bullock at the Stacked Deck later that evening. The idea of having to run errands was a welcome distraction, right alongside her mission to track down the Riddler.

Another one of those errands included a trip down to the Narrows to coerce a doctor into giving her birth control, a genuinely menial task compared to how Harley typically spent her days.

Samantha didn't own anything that would transform her into a poverty-stricken drug addict, so Harley pulled on the frayed denim shorts and a sweat-stained crop top that had been her outfit of choice for months. Then she dumped the contents of the handbag she'd taken with her the night before back into her fanny pack—ten grand in cash, a taser, a switchblade, Pam's encrypted phone, and a burner she used for everyone else—and headed out.

It took about forty minutes to drive from the upper echelons of North Gotham to the Narrows, an island as far south as you could get while still being within the city limits. The Narrows was notorious for two things; its drug addicts and Arkham Asylum. Harley used to get nervous going there, feeling she was treading too closely to her old life. Now she couldn't give less of a shit. If someone recognized her, that was too bad for them. It was _charitable_ for her to go out in public and disguise herself.

She parked the Crown Vic down the street from a Wayne Foundation Clinic and took a moment to look up and down the trash lined streets. It looked like garbage had been piling up for weeks, the mid-summer heat making the bags sweat and stink fiercely. That didn't seem like the kind of good Mayor-ing that would get Krol re-elected, but it wasn't like people in the Narrows turned out to vote in droves. From what Harley knew of Hamilton Hill, a big-time business consultant turned politician, it wasn't likely he'd be much help to them either.

The people of the Narrows were simply doomed.

The sign advertising the clinic had been ripped off the building, replaced with red graffiti of a cock and balls. Harley made a face, wishing she didn't have to do this, then crossed her arms tight over her chest, hunched her shoulders defensively, and bowed her head before she shuffled into the clinic, playing her new character.

The clinic consisted of a small waiting room lined with orange plastic chairs bolted to the floor, half of which were occupied by weathered, sad-looking people. A harried woman was bouncing a screaming baby with a dirty diaper on her knee, while an emaciated old man snored nearby, and a group of three young men huddled together, talking in low voices, all of them sweaty and blinking rapidly. Drug addicts.

Harley watched the addicts out of the corner of her eye as she approached the receptionist's desk. It was manned by a matronly African woman who was currently speaking on the phone in clipped tones, only just maintaining a veneer of respect for whoever she was requesting medical supplies from. Harley fought the urge to sigh impatiently and rock back on her heels.

Instead, she remained hunched and shrunken, clutching her elbows and keeping her face hidden until the receptionist was free to pass her a clipboard and a pen.

The form was a basic questionnaire asking for information on why she was there and her medical history. Harley filled it out quickly, only answering the questions someone poor and left behind would be able to answer. She returned the form to the receptionist and flopped into one of the orange chairs, glowering at the other patients, the screaming baby making her nerves stand on end.

It would be so much easier to kill them all and take the doctor hostage.

But she was supposed to be flying under the radar. Murder at a charitable free clinic was hardly discreet.

She could leave a riddle, blame it on the Riddler. That might be fun.

In the end, Harley opted to wait, and eventually, the woman with the crying baby was called, at least blessing the waiting room with silence. After what felt like an eternity, one of the drug addicts was called, shooting his buddies a nervous look before he headed into the doctor's office. Harley watched his friends rock in their seats, the signs of withdrawal visible, when she noticed their nostrils were vaguely... _blue._

Harley narrowed her eyes, watching them mutter to each other anxiously. She was on the verge of going over to ask what kind of heroin turned a person's nose blue when their friend rushed out of the doctor's office, cursing over his shoulder. He waved at his friends, and they hurried after him out of the clinic.

The old man went in next—the receptionist had to come over and wake him up—and shortly after that a young couple staggered in. A skinny girl with tight red curls and her boyfriend, who was sporting blue nostrils and grinding his teeth, his hand firmly clasped around her upper arm. The girl had a black eye, and Harley didn't need a PhD to guess who gave it to her as she watched the boyfriend shove the girl into a chair.

Then finally, the fake name Harley had given was called.

She shuffled into the small doctor's office, shoulders hunched, head down, still in character, and didn't look up when the doctor chirped a friendly hello as she climbed onto the examination table.

"Billie Stone?" the doctor asked, prompting Harley to look up from under her hair. "I'm Dr Lee Thompkins," she said, offering Harley a kind smile.

Dr Thompkins looked to be in her mid-fifties, pretty with olive skin and thick black hair wound up in a twist at the back of her head, a sleek grey streak falling over her eyes. Her eyes were warm and thick with crows feet, her makeup neat, and beneath her white lab coat, she wore simple slacks and a white shirt. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

"Yes, ma'am," Harley murmured, shrinking in on herself, her eyes darting down to the floor.

"So, you're here for birth control today?" Dr Thompkins asked kindly, consulting Harley's chart.

"Yes, ma'am," Harley murmured again, not engaging with her.

"I just need to ask you a few questions," Dr Thompkins continued. "When was the last day of your last period?"

"Two days ago," Harley said awkwardly, listening to the doctor's pen scratch across the page.

"And your last smear test?"

"Uh," Harley thought back to her last OBGYN appointment. It had been just before the Joker was admitted to Arkham. "About two years ago."

There was a pause before Dr Thompkins asked, "And what form of birth control are you currently using?"

"Abstinence," Harley said bitterly before she could stop herself. She grit her teeth, recalibrating. "I had the implant in my arm, but it stopped working last month. I don't want a baby, doc. My boyfriend'll kill me."

Not necessarily untrue.

"I see," Dr Thompkins said hesitantly. "And... you were happy with it? No side effects? Breast pain, nausea, weight gain..."

"Nope," Harley said flatly, growing bored with the process.

"Well, luckily we have a few here to administer," Dr Thompkins said, sounding uncertain. Or maybe nervous. "I'll just need to take your vitals before we can place it in your arm."

"Okay," Harley agreed woodenly, willing the process to speed up as the doctor moved closer and went through the motions of having her take deep breaths while she moved a stethoscope over Harley's back and chest. Harley kept her face turned away as a blood pressure cuff was secured around her arm, and Dr Thompkins informed her that her blood pressure was a little high.

"Shocking," Harley muttered as Thompkins removed the cuff and took hold of her wrist, taking her pulse in silence.

"You know..." Dr Thompkins said at length, still holding Harley's wrist between her thumb and forefinger. "You don't have to pretend for me... Dr Quinzel."

Harley closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, berating herself for not being more on the ball, especially not around someone smart who had to be observant for a living. She unzipped her fanny pack and lifted her head, rolling her shoulders back as she sat up straight, her face composed in icy malice as she met Thompkins' eye.

"Oh, Dr Thompkins," Harley said darkly, pulling the switchblade out of her fanny pack and flicking it open with a _swick!_ "You really should have kept that to yourself."

Dr Thompkins' eyes widened as she released Harley's wrist and took a step back, her hands flying up defensively.

"No, no, it's okay," she stammered. "I can be discreet. This is the Narrows, I have to be."

"Discreet?" Harley raised an eyebrow as she jumped off the table, the blade in her hand glinting under the fluorescent lights. "Even for someone like _me_ ? A domestic _terrorist._ "

"Yes, even for someone like you," Thompkins insisted, trying to smile reassuringly, but failing as Harley started to close in on her. "I took an oath to provide care to those who need it and... and that includes you."

"The Hippocratic oath is to save _lives_ ," Harley sneered, finding her argument unpersuasive. "Not to provide _bad_ people with _birth_ control."

"Please, you don't have to do this," Thompkins begged, sounding desperate. "Just let me give you what you came for, and you can go."

Harley ran her tongue over her bottom lip, her eyes darting around Thompkins' anxious face. There were a few long seconds of silence in which Harley considered her options, and at last, she nodded shortly and backed up to sit on the examination table, her mouth hardening as she tucked the switchblade back in her fanny pack and zipped it closed.

"How did you know?" she asked grumpily once Thompkins returned with a tray of medical equipment and asked her to raise her arm.

"Well..." Thompkins said awkwardly, pulling on a pair of purple latex gloves. "Most women from the Narrows will never have had a pap smear, let alone use such _modern_ birth control."

 _"And,"_ Harley snapped, using her free hand to rake her hair off her face now that she didn't have to hide.

"And... I recognized your voice," Thompkins admitted as she focused on Harley's arm, numbing the skin under her bicep with a local anesthetic. "There was a video circulating a few weeks back... a lecture you gave at Gotham University. They tried to take it down, claiming it was gaslighting people, but of course, it made its way back up."

"What?" Harley frowned, casting her mind back to the lectures she'd given at GU while Dr Thompkins used a pair of plastic forceps to insert the implant under her skin, then held a ball of cotton wool against the small incision and secured it with a piece of medical tape. "What lecture?"

"It was about the rarity of real psychopaths," Thompkins explained uneasily, removing her latex gloves. "It sounded a little bit like you... _revered_ them. At least intellectually."

Harley made a face and lowered her arm to her side. "Why are people sharing a video of a lecture I gave years ago?"

"Are you kidding?" Thompkins' eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Your story is _extremely_ compelling."

"You've been reading Vicki Vale," Harley shot back bitterly. "Mad Love is not what happened."

"I don't know how anyone could believe that was what happened," Thompkins frowned. "It's the mystery that makes it so fascinating."

Harley shrugged ambivalently, disinterested in how mysterious or compelling the general population found her.

"Anyway... you're all set," Thompkins offered her a strained smile. "But just to be safe, wait about ten days before having unprotected intercourse."

"Sure," Harley sighed, rubbing her hands over her face when something occurred to her. She dropped her hands and squinted at Thompkins curiously.

"There are a lot of drug addicts out in that waiting room," she observed. "Why are their noses blue?"

"Oh," Thompkins nodded knowingly. "That's the Blue Orchid. If they're snorting it regularly in large amounts, it turns the skin blue."

"Blue what?" Harley narrowed her eyes.

"Blue Orchid, it's kind of the designer drug of the moment," Thompkins explained, shaking her head. "When the heroin dried up, I thought we might make some headway on the addiction crisis down here, but then BO swept in to fill its place."

"Why haven't I heard anything about this?" Harley demanded, standing from the examination table. Suddenly she remembered the purple powder the Joker's henchmen had been sniffing in Marty's kitchen. _Oh..._

"Probably because it's just as popular Uptown as it is down here," Thompkins said, her face souring. "It's made right here in Gotham."

"Okay," Harley said thoughtfully. "Batman takes out the drug routes, someone starts making Blue Orchid in Gotham to fill the void. Now it's the drug of choice amongst the wealthy and the poor and everyone in between."

"Exactly," Thompkins offered Harley a strained smile. "It feels like there's always someone eager to profit off the vulnerable in Gotham."

"It's not just Gotham," Harley countered, rolling her eyes. "It's human beings. It's civilization. People will always kill one another to better themselves. We're worse than animals."

Thompkins seemed to understand she was getting into a philosophical discussion with the Joker's partner and kept her mouth shut, which Harley took as her cue to leave. But first, she applied another character, wanting to go on good terms with Dr Thompkins so she wouldn't immediately run screaming to the cops. And maybe, if it ever became necessary in the future, she could provide some discreet healthcare again. Harley's business wasn't the safest, and it was always helpful to have an easily-coerced doctor on hand.

"Thank you for your help, Dr Thompkins," Harley said, plastering on a grateful smile. It was Dr Harleen Quinzel's smile, a character Harley played expertly for _years_ , and one Thompkins seemed to respect. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your discretion," she added, holding out her hand.

"Of course," Thompkins stuttered, taken aback by the sudden change of pace as she shook Harley's hand. "It's my job."

Harley gave her another disarming smile and then turned to leave, her face immediately falling into a moody scowl as she exited Thomkins' office and strode through the waiting room.

She stopped when she reached the redhead with a black eye, her boyfriend now absent. Harley's jaw twitched as she squinted down at the girl, then unzipped her fanny pack to retrieve the switchblade she'd pulled on Dr Thompkins. The sound of the zipper made the girl look up, and her eyes widened when she saw Harley staring down at her.

Harley held the knife out to her, and the girl took it uncertainly, looking between the blade and Harley's face, confused.

"The next time he tries something like that," Harley instructed, tapping the side of her throat. "Aim for his jugular. Right here."

The girl's eyes widened even further, her hands tightening around the knife as she held it close to her chest.

Harley tossed her hair over her shoulder and continued out of the clinic, relieved to be done with that particularly tedious task as she headed back to the Crown Vic.

She had just gotten the door open and climbed behind the wheel when the burner in her fanny pack beeped loudly. It was a message from Arthur Reeves.

_Tobacconist's Club tonight? Come on, it'll be fun! Private party! Plenty of rich assholes to laugh at!_

Harley considered the pros and cons as she turned the key in the ignition, and the old engine revved to life with a sputter. Pros: the possibility of gleaning new information when she was clearly in the dark about many of Gotham's going-ons. Cons: extreme boredom and exasperation.

 _Sure_ , she wrote.

 _Ann Smiley 1? ;)_ Reeves offered.

Harley relived her recent failure to blend in and decided she would need to do better this time if she was to swan around amongst Gotham's 'most powerful' and get some information out of them.

She knew all too well how Gotham's elite liked to flirt with the darker sides of the city.

She tapped out a reply to Reeves.

_Peaches Kane. No plus 1._

* * *

Wayne Manor had two kitchens. One was a massive, restaurant-grade kitchen, used primarily by caterers when lavish parties were thrown—something Dinah had not been subjected to yet. However, it was coming with the looming Wayne Foundation Fundraiser in less than two weeks' time.

Then there was the nook, large by normal kitchen standards but not obscenely so. It had an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, a fancy refrigerator that spat perfect cubes of ice, and a reclaimed oak table with two long benches. It was homey and warm-feeling, and Dinah liked nothing better than spending time there with Bruce and Alfred, eating and talking and being together.

She was sitting at the kitchen table with her Macbook open in front of her, pretending to work on an essay for the Psych 101 class she had agreed to take online. Dinah rationalized that having some understanding of the mind would help with her real work: fighting terrorists and keeping the people of Gotham safe. Her psychology textbook sat unopened by her elbow, ready for her to show Bruce or Alfred if they asked about it, but she was currently reading two books in tandem: one on cryptology, the study of codes and puzzles, the other on Abstract Expressionism.

It had been almost two days since the Riddler's last heist. Three people were dead, and he'd stolen another painting, leaving a riddle behind.

_I am worshiped and I am hated_

_A prominent figure of flexible celebration_

_Most don't know me, but they all want to be me_

_What am I?_

The answer appeared to be 'celebrity,' but what that was supposed to mean, Dinah didn't know, especially not when combined with the riddle he'd left at the Gotham Museum of Modern Art a week earlier.

_I am illness to some and freedom to others_

_Repetition and chaos are the choices we make_

_I am the one thing that will make the mind break_

_What am I?_

'Insanity' appeared to be the answer to that riddle.

The paintings felt more revealing than the riddles. Dinah brought up an image of Francis Bacon's 'Figure with Meat' on her laptop, bracing her chin in her palm as she examined the screaming face and the butchered cow, the violence implicit in the smears of paint. _'Permeated by anguished visions of humanity',_ the internet informed her. _'Powerful, nihilistic, tormented figures become players in dark, unresolved dramas.'_

The Jackson Pollock painting was of the same period, but a completely different aesthetic. _'The canvas was not a picture but an event,_ ' the book on Abstract Expressionism said. _'The gesture on the canvas was a gesture of liberation from value—political, aesthetic, moral.'_

Both of them reminded Dinah of Harley.

She knew what Bruce would say that—she was obsessed. That Harley hadn't been seen in over six months. But the Riddler had emulated the Joker before, what was to say that _he_ wasn't obsessed with them. What if he was reaching _out_ to them.

Dinah pulled up the Pollock painting on her laptop and stared at it, her brow sinking into a frown as she searched the erratic splatters and random streaks of paint. She wished she could see it in real life, or touch it to feel the texture against her fingertips, maybe giving her better insight into its meaning. Because the longer she stared at it and tried to understand it, the more one word came to her.

 _Chaos_.

Chaos had been the answer to one of the Riddler's riddles a month earlier.

Dinah sighed and turned back to the cryptology book just as Bruce strolled into the nook, straightening his tie and looking a little giddy like he always did when he was about to see Vicki or had just come from seeing Vicki.

"Working hard?" He grinned at her.

Dinah held up her psychology textbook. "Psych 101," she lied.

But Bruce was too observant to fall for that. He raised his eyebrows at the open books in front of her.

"Abstract Expressionism and cryptology, huh?" he asked, and Dinah sighed, feeling chastised as she looked at the Jackson Pollock painting again.

"It turns out I like art after all," she admitted, feeling a little stupid because art seemed so... _frivolous_.

"We have a pretty decent collection, you know," Bruce told her, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. "Maybe you could get a degree in art history and curate it for us one day."

Dinah shot him a dubious look.

"Nice try," she said drily, then changed the subject quickly, folding her arms and smirking at him. "You're looking very fancy."

"An old friend of mine just sold his company," Bruce explained, not looking very happy as he straightened his bowtie. "They're throwing him a party at this member's club downtown, and Vicki wants to see if she can sniff out a story."

"Rich people congratulate each other on getting richer," Dinah observed flatly. "Revolutionary journalism."

Bruce shot her a pointed look. "Vicki's not a reporter anymore. She commissions profiles for the magazine."

"I know," Dinah said, feeling a little guilty for being too harsh. "So… do we have any Jackson Pollock paintings in the collection?"

"I don't know," Bruce grinned smugly, which always made him look kind of dopey. "But we can buy some," he shrugged, making Dinah roll her eyes.

His car arrived soon after that to take him into the city, and Dinah told him to have fun and behave himself. It was obvious he would be out all night with Vicki, either staying at her place or bringing her back to the Manor, and Dinah tried not to feel disappointed that he was doing something to make himself happy. She wanted Bruce to be happy, but she also happened to think there were more important things than a personal life.

But that was okay, because the more she'd thought about it, the more Dinah came to believe she could do this without Bruce. She could be the watchful guardian Gotham needed, and he could settle down. Have a wife, some kids. He deserved that after the sacrifices he'd made. After all she'd done, Dinah didn't deserve it. At least not yet.

Alfred had already gone to bed, so Dinah closed her laptop and turned off the lights before heading to the sitting room. She tapped out three major chords on the piano, opening the secret passage, its motion sensor lights flickering on as she stepped through the bookcase.

She hadn't told Bruce yet, but Lieutenant Essen had texted her with a tip about an underground art racket run by some of Alexandra Kosov's goons out in South Channel. Dinah hadn't even told him that Essen gave her an old Nokia phone that couldn't be traced so they could communicate. It was how drug dealers and criminals communicated with each other, burner phones that couldn't be traced. It was how Harley had talked with her henchmen and minions, which included Dinah at one time.

More often than she'd like to admit, Dinah put some of the tricks Harley taught her to good use as Black Canary.

She just hoped they would be useful when she had to face Harley again.

* * *

**A/N: First proper look at Ed! Catching up with Pam! Frost shipping Harley & J! **

**Also, a few new characters pulled from different Batman media. Lee Thompkins of Gotham, aged up - she will reappear later. Alexander Knox and the Flugelheim Museum from Burton's 1989 Batman. Arthur Reeves from BTAS - I wrote him with Armie Hammer in mind. I love him playing a suave scumbag.**

**My favorite is Pam calling the Joker a fuckboy. It makes me laugh every time I edit this chapter.**

**Admin note - I'm going to include a "previously" + mood music at the top of each chapter from now on. Hope you give these tracks a spin!**

**Real talk - You guys. YOU GUYS. The reception to this was off the wall last week. I was supposed to be having my bachelorette party weekend (thanks, Covid) and was planning on feeling sorry for myself, but you guys were so enthusiastic I kind of… forgot, haha. I mean, this plague is doing much worse to people than canceling weddings, and I consider myself quite lucky, but, ya know, thank you all for cheering me up!**

**_Next: Harley visits the Tobacconist's Club while the Joker continues working on his side project, and their relationship deteriorates further._ **

**Please comment and review! I am *very* interested in finding out what people think about this first look of the Riddler/Ed.**

**xo**


	3. Chapter 3

**Previously: Lucy hires Harley and the Joker to kidnap Gotham’s DA under her boss’s instructions. Arthur Reeves invites Harley to the Tobacconist's Club.**

_Theme: Unloved - ‘Danger’ ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/9yFCSQ9U6ro)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/56DoReF22iwX5DTfTM6uGJ?si=WYS_SGviQL-8EzEYnmRFzA))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

3.

* * *

Victor stayed in the car while Lucy took the gold-plated elevator up to Roman's penthouse. She wore her favorite pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and a cute pair of flip flops covered in rhinestones, her dark hair tied up in a limp ponytail. She was tired, and not looking forward to getting dressed up for 80s Night at the Iceberg Lounge when all she wanted to do was curl up with Mario and watch _Real Housewives of Gotham_. Lucy wasn't especially looking forward to this encounter with Roman either, knowing instinctively it would have something to do with Harley and the Joker.

Lucy reminded herself that being summoned by Roman to his home was a privilege, one not afforded to all of the members of their group. She reminded herself how much she owed Roman, and that he trusted her, so she should trust him in return.

The private elevator opened into a small reception room with fluffy white carpet and a low table outfitted with a cozy lamp and a fern, a pair of imposing double doors looming over it. As soon as Lucy stepped foot on the carpet, one of the doors swung open, revealing a beautiful, willowy blonde with a sleek bob, beaming at Lucy. She wore a white apron over a pale blue A-line dress with a matching headband and heels, the picture of a perfect housewife right down to the smell of shortbread cookies lingering behind her.

"Hi, Circe," Lucy greeted Roman's fiancee, trying to return her warm smile as Circe silently gestured for Lucy to follow her into the penthouse, the shortbread smell growing almost sickly sweet.

This was the Falcone penthouse. It was where Mario grew up, though now that he was out of Blackgate, he wanted nothing to do with it, claiming he only had horrible memories from childhood, memories of his dismissive father and cold mother, and siblings of the same ilk. He and Alberto were more than happy to hand the keys over to Roman and Circe, who were better suited to it anyway.

Roman was sitting at the island in the kitchen, examining one of Circe's shortbread cookies with a critical eye. He was handsome in an unsettling way, with large, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, his curly black hair cropped short on the sides and floppy on top. He'd thrown his suit jacket over the back of a bar stool, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up at the elbows, a splotch of blood staining one cuff.

"Lucy," he smiled beatifically and got to his feet, tossing Circe's cookie aside. "How are you?"

"I'm alright, boss," Lucy replied, forcing a smile.

"I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk," Roman braced his elbow on the bar and cocked his head to the side, staring at Lucy intently. "About the other night. I know you were worried."

"Oh, that's fine boss," Lucy protested, still smiling. "It went alright in the end. They agreed to six-grand, and—"

"I know, Lucy. I've spoken to Alberto," Roman cut her off kindly. "I wanted to get your impression of how things went. If anything stood out to you.” He raised his eyebrows like he was challenging her.

It wasn't a challenge—it was a test. Lucy had quickly learned that Roman liked to test people, to push them to their limits. But Lucy saw these tests for what they were; hoops to jump through so he could control her. After working with Roman for nearly a year, Lucy couldn't see what choice she had but to perform as expected to keep him happy.

She'd seen him unhappy, and that was not a side she wanted to be on. Ever.

That wasn't to say Roman led by fear. He didn't with most of their associates, at least not the politicians and businessmen, or the old school gangsters who’d stepped aside for him. But anyone with any sense—which Lucy found a remarkable number of people lacked—would be nervous to refuse him.

"I noticed..." Lucy hesitated, a nagging voice in the back of her head telling her it was wrong to pursue this thread even though it would make Roman happy. She barrelled ahead. "I think Harley and the Joker may be having some _relationship_ problems, boss," Lucy announced.

Roman's eyebrows rose, his full lips spreading into a pleased smile.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Just things I noticed about the way they were acting," Lucy shrugged. "Maybe it's a woman's intuition, ya know?"

"That's very good, Lucy," Roman beamed, laying a hand on her shoulder and searching her face. "Very good," he repeated, squeezing her arm.

Lucy smiled back at him numbly, hiding her uncertainty and projecting loyalty as she'd learned to do long, long ago.

"Listen, boss, I don't wanna overstep," she said cautiously. "But maybe… if I knew _why_ we're offerin' Harley and the Joker a job, I could be more help. Ya know, like if I've got all the information I can make better decisions?"

Roman sighed, his sunken eyes drifting to the plate of shortbread cookies before he looked at Lucy again.

"You've known Harley a long time. In fact, you probably know her better than most people.” He narrowed his eyes. "What do you think about Harley Quinn?"

Lucy pressed her lips together and looked down at her glittering flip flops, uncertain what Roman wanted her to say.

"Your honest opinion," Roman added, watching Lucy's tired face closely.

"She's dangerous," Lucy said slowly. "She's unpredictable, impulsive, moody, and she's… _sadistic_." Lucy looked up at Roman, meeting his gaze. "A face like hers, people get distracted, they underestimate her," she warned him. "They don't wanna believe what she's capable of even when she shows them."

"And do you think it's better to have someone like that be your friend or your enemy?" Roman asked mildly, making Lucy's eyes widen as she realized this was about _employing_ Harley.

"Boss, Harley Quinn… she don't do friends," Lucy insisted. "She and the Joker—"

"But she and the Joker may no longer be a package deal," Roman cut her off smoothly, smiling. "Harley may be sadistic, but she is not the Joker. She's not a rabid dog, or an anarchist, or insane, even if she's chained herself to someone who is. If we separate them," he pressed his hands together and drew them apart. "Harley can evolve into something more…" He rolled his large eyes up, searching for a word. "Sophisticated," he settled on. "Something we can work with."

"Sophisticated?" Lucy asked warily, not missing that he called Harley some _thing_ , not some _one_.

"You'll see what I mean," Roman offered her a patient smile, and even though Lucy returned it, she still felt her heart sink that Roman was taking them down this path.

Working with Harley? _Separating_ her from the Joker? It was suicide, plain and simple. Lucy struggled to imagine the other members of their group agreeing to it, but Roman had power over those people too, and Lucy had yet to see any of them refuse him. In the end, they always came around to his way of thinking and gave him what he wanted.

"One of them will come back to the club," Roman predicted cheerfully. "I’d be very impressed if you can find out more about this for me, Lucy."

Lucy swallowed thickly, her stomach sinking further.

Another test—a very dangerous one.

"Of course, boss," Lucy replied obediently.

"Why don't you go get dressed for tonight," Roman suggested as Circe appeared behind Lucy, hovering silently at her elbow. "Maybe get your nails done. That'd be nice, right?" He offered her a smile.

"That'd be real nice, boss," Lucy agreed, forcing a grin.

She turned to face Circe, who was smiling dreamily. She led Lucy back to the foyer, and while they waited for the elevator, Circe silently handed over a gauzy piece of fabric holding a few shortbread cookies, tied up with a white satin bow.

Lucy kept smiling as she stepped into the elevator, waiting for the gold doors to close before she finally let her face relax, exhaling a shaky breath she'd been holding.

"Shit," she whispered, feeling rattled… and trapped.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Harley got back to the safe house to get ready for her night out at the Tobacconist's Club. She grabbed a shower before heating up one of the batch-cooked meals still waiting for Samantha in her freezer—vegan chili and cauliflower rice, the handwritten label said—and ate it standing up as she examined Samantha's closet of colorful frocks and stylish separates.

Eventually, she chose a Little Black Dress, then picked through a box of costume jewellery until she found a huge pair of clip-on pearl earrings and a matching necklace that looked like it should have belonged to Betty Rubble. Her hair was still a complete mess, so she wound it back in a chignon bun, adding a few lashings of hairspray to keep it neat.

After applying some heavy eye makeup and false eyelashes, Harley examined herself in the mirror and concluded she looked more like the stately wife of a conservative Republican politician than a spoiled member of the trust fund brigade. That would surely do the trick considering who she’d be spending the evening with. As a final touch, she reorganized the contents of her fanny pack into a clutch shaped like a baguette and resolutely snapped it shut.

Harley considered blowing off Bullock and heading straight Downtown to meet Reeves but decided whatever this _ASAP lots of people are dead_ stuff was about, it was worth finding out. Besides, she liked Bullock, and he was good company. Not in the same way she liked Reeves, who was more like a clown to keep her distracted and entertained, and whom she didn't trust as far as she could throw him. Bullock, on the other hand, Bullock was completely loyal to Harley, and he was amusing in his own grumpy alcoholic way.

She grabbed a cab to the Cauldron neighborhood on Gotham's Eastside, offering the driver a hundred-dollar bill when he complained. There was the usual gaggle of thieves huddled outside the bar, smoking and dealing drugs and generally being anti-social. Harley breezed past them, ignoring the stares of the criminal patrons inside as she searched for Bullock.

He was at his usual table near the door, a rickety little thing flanked by two stools with fading maroon upholstery. As usual, he was hunched over a pint of beer and a line of shots, his tattered trench coat bunched up around his elbows and a trilby sitting crookedly on his graying ginger hair.

Harley smiled as she dropped onto the stool opposite him, chuckling when Bullock jumped and clasped a hand over his heart.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, why you always gotta sneak up on me, huh?" he demanded, taking a long draught of beer as he looked Harley over, taking in her disguise. "Well, look at you, all fancy," he observed wryly, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

"I have stuff to do," Harley shrugged, grabbing one of his shots and knocking it back. It was cheap whiskey and burned the back of her throat, making her nose wrinkle and her fingertips tingle. "So, what's going on?" She asked, dropping the shot glass on the beer-slicked table with a little rattle.

Bullock pitched forward, his expression serious.

"Listen, I need to know if you two are the ones stirring up shit in the Narrows," he insisted. "If you can tell me why, that'd be pretty helpful too."

"Stirring up shit in the Narrows?" Harley lifted an amused eyebrow.

"I've had twenty-one bodies show up in less than three weeks," Bullock explained, sounding exasperated. "So, ya know, it'd be good to get a heads up on what I can expect next."

"You're asking me if we've killed twenty-one people in the Narrows?" Harley asked, and when Bullock spread his arms wide as if that was obvious, she laughed. "Nope, not us."

"Great," Bullock grunted, swaying back and grabbing a shot.

"I can't tell if you're relieved or not," Harley chuckled, watching him toss back the whiskey.

"I got a serial killer on my hands, Harley," Bullock said irritably. "I ain't gonna be relieved until I catch them."

"Twenty-one people in less than three weeks, huh," Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Why aren't the papers writing about it?"

"Cause they're probably all junkies," Bullock huffed and waved his hand impatiently. "Besides, it ain't as glamorous as the Riddler shooting up some fancy gallery." He hitched forward, pulling a folder from the depths of his coat. "Listen, maybe you could help me."

"Oh god," Harley groaned and rolled her eyes. "You want me to consult on a case? You know they used to pay me for that when I worked at Arkham."

"Call it a favor," Bullock pleaded, looking desperate.

Harley made a reluctant sound in the back of her throat then nodded once in agreement. She could do with another distraction.

"Alright, so bodies started showin' up at the docks about a week and a half ago. The killer pierced the lungs so the bodies would sink, but eventually, the corpses bloat and float to the surface," Bullock explained. "The dock manager finds twelve fuckin' bodies floating in one place ten days ago."

"Jesus," Harley made a face. "How long had they been dead?"

"The coroner says they all woulda died and been disposed of within a week prior," Bullock grabbed another shot and considered it carefully before ultimately putting it down and fixing Harley with another grim look. "We think all of em' were junkies."

Harley sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, remembering the addicts from the clinic earlier that day, and what Dr Thompkins had said about them replacing heroin with Blue Orchid.

"And this is where it gets fuckin' gross," Bullock shook his head. "Seems whoever was dumping the bodies there figured out they needed to do something better. A few days later we start finding these."

He opened the folder and Harley was confronted with a crime scene shot of red, oozy pulp spilling out of a plastic grocery bag.

"What the fuck is that?" Harley asked.

"That's what's leftover when you dissolve a body in acid," Bullock said sourly, turning the photo over to reveal a second shot of a plastic bucket filled with more of the bloody substance. "That one's got three DNA profiles in it," he turned the picture over to a new one, this time a dumpster stuffed full of trash bags with more of the bloody pulp dumped on top. "We found this a couple days ago," Bullock explained, sounding tired. "At least five DNA profiles."

"Yikes," Harley's eyebrows rose appraisingly. "That _is_ gross."

"We asked around. Apparently junkies have been disappearing," Bullock shook his head again. "Those poor fucks don't know what's goin' on with all that BO they're shoving up their noses, but they're scared."

Harley hummed thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on the dumpster shot.

"So, you think these nine... _leftovers_ are another nine drug addicts killed by the same person?" she asked.

"Well, we got junkies missing, and don't psychopaths usually have like a type, ya know? Like a pattern?" Bullock hunched forward on his elbows, nearly knocking over the remaining shots of whiskey on the table.

"Psychopaths either take pleasure in killing or they feel no remorse about killing," Harley agreed, her eyes drifting over the remains in the dumpster as she considered the merits of a pattern in these murders. "If they kill for pleasure, sometimes they'll choose their victim because they have a type or a delusion they need to play out, or it could be completely random and impulsive..."

"Yeah, a delusion. We gotta theory," Bullock hunched his shoulders. "They're killing junkies as some kinda purification shit."

"No," Harley shook her head and tapped the photo with her index finger. "Nine times out of ten when you're dealing with that kind of psychopath, their killings are ritualistic. They don't just kill them and dump the bodies. This person is killing at least one or two people a night, there's no time for a ritual, or even to enjoy it."

"So what're you sayin'?" Bullock squinted at Harley.

"I'm saying this is the other kind. Killing without remorse," Harley gestured to the pictures. "This is work."

Bullock made a face. "How the fuck is killin' junkies work?"

"I guess that's what you have to figure out," Harley mused, again thinking about what Thompkins told her. "How much do you know about Blue Orchid?"

"BO?" Bullock looked surprised. "Some of the guys down the station take a small dose to help em' stay up or concentrate, but you take too much of that shit and you start seeing things."

"Seeing things?" Harley frowned. "Like hallucinating?"

"Yeah," Bullock rolled his eyes. "Kids take it to party now that they can't get coke or pills. But it's not illegal, so it's not like we can do anything about it."

"Aren't you curious about where it came from?" Harley asked, her own curiosity leaping to life. "If it's being made here in Gotham, someone is making a shit load of money off it."

"Eh," Bullock shrugged. "I got murders to worry about."

"Why isn't the Batman worrying about it?" Harley pressed. "He cut off all the other drugs, why not this one?"

"Well for a start, he and BC got the Riddler to worry about now, don't they," Bullock pointed out.

"BC?" Harley asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Look," Bullock blustered, looking embarrassed. "All the big mobsters and crime lords are dead or retired or disappeared. There ain't no kingpin and crime is down across the board. Murder is down, corruption is down. The DA is prosecuting criminals instead of protecting them, and you two are supposedly dead or disappeared. Batman's focusing on the Riddler, and he don't give a shit about BO or who's making it. And like I said, it ain't even illegal."

Harley ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking back to Alexandra Kosov's prediction that Holiday had been killing mob bosses to make space for someone new. Now she and her gang were running Gotham's Eastside, which the city treated like no man's land, and as far as cops like Bullock were concerned, organized crime in Gotham proper had disappeared entirely.

But organized crime was in Gotham's DNA, and it _always_ involved drugs.

Lucy was dating Mario Falcone and hiring people to kidnap district attorneys. Just because the Batman and Black Canary had been lulled into a false sense of security and were distracted by the Riddler, didn't mean there wasn't something bigger at play.

"You think there's a conspiracy, dontcha," Bullock leaned forward, his baggy eyes searching Harley's face intently. "One that explains these bodies?"

Harley drummed her fingers on the sticky tabletop, knowing she was missing something.

 _Damnit._ And she already knew she was going to have to figure it out even if she didn't want anything to do with the mob or drug dealers or Bullock's cases.

"I don't know," she admitted, getting to her feet and grabbing her clutch. "I'll look into it."

"Look into it?" Bullock's scraggly eyebrows nearly jumped into his hairline.

"Yeah," Harley shrugged. "I'll keep you posted," she added, shooting him a smirk before she turned and walked out of the bar, chuckling when Bullock sputtered and swore behind her.

* * *

The first thing Frost learned about working for the Joker was not to ask questions. On that first job, when they were hunting down Holiday, Sly had pulled Frost aside and told him as much, saying he would find out whatever he needed to know in due course. So far, Frost had followed this advice, quietly following instructions and not asking questions, and it seemed to have paid off. There were plenty of guys that hung out at the safe house in Gotham Heights, but Frost was the only one doing any _real_ work with the Joker. And even if he didn't understand the Joker's endgame, he sure did know a hell of a lot more than those guys.

Frost knew more than even Harley Quinn, an idea that made him deeply uncomfortable, to be honest.

The parking garage's yellow lights flickered on as the Joker unfolded his lanky body from the backseat of Janice Porter's BMW, stretching his arms over his head with a grunt after twenty minutes of crouching back there. The green dye in his hair had faded to a faint tinge, grease and sweat washing the temporary dye away. Tonight he wore the same skinny black suit he'd picked up a couple of weeks earlier, the white shirt wrinkled and speckled with blood, a few buttons missing at the throat so his tie was permanently askew. Frost wasn't sure why the Joker hadn't made a trip to his tailor to pick up a new purple suit, but he suspected it had something to do with wanting to fly under the radar.

The Joker flung open the BMW’s driver's door, and reached inside to slap the unconscious District Attorney, making sure she was out for the count. Frost had watched him soak a rag in enough chloroform to take out an elephant, so she was sure to be unconscious for several hours at least. That meant talking to her was out of the question any time soon, and he couldn't help thinking they were missing a trick there. If they shook her down before they handed her over, maybe they could find out why Lucy and her Iceberg Lounge entourage wanted her brought in alive in the first place.

Then again... shaking the DA down and handing her off to be shaken down again would end in Lucy and her people knowing that the Joker knew what _they_ knew.

Whatever three-dimensional chess he was playing, the Joker seemed to think it best to play it discreet for now.

The boss dragged Janice out of her car by her arm, letting her fall face-first on the concrete with a meaty slap. He stepped back and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, watching with vague interest as Frost ducked down to haul the DA over his shoulder. She was heavier than she looked, and he grunted as he carried her over to the town car and carefully lowered her into the trunk.

"Shit," the Joker muttered around his cigarette.

He was looking at a burner phone, his eyes rolling in exasperation as he exhaled a stream of smoke out of the mutilated corner of his mouth.

"He bein' a pain in the ass again, boss?" Frost asked before he could stop himself, and the Joker lifted one eyebrow as he looked up, like he was surprised to see Frost standing there.

" _You_ catch on quick," he rasped, then sighed melodramatically as he thumbed out a quick response and tucked the burner away. "We're gonna need someone to ah... drop this _package_ off for us," he grumbled, more to himself than Frost.

"You got someone in mind, boss?"

"Mmm," the Joker hummed, low in his throat, his face souring as he smoked and thought something over.

Frost waited patiently, wondering if he would get one of those rare responses to a direct question, which most of the time were just snarky replies that seemed to be more for the boss's own entertainment than actual communication. The only person Frost had ever seen him hold a real conversation with was Harley... Unless you counted shaking a guy down as a conversation.

But instead of replying, the Joker loped over to the passenger side of the town car and ducked inside, and Frost obediently followed his lead, diving behind the wheel.

As Frost waited for directions, the Joker held his phone up to his ear, his foot tapping restlessly until Lonnie finally answered.

"Find her," he snapped, and then immediately hung up.

Her. There was only one 'her' that Frost was aware of, and his stomach twisted a little thinking that whatever it was they were finding her for, Harley wasn't going to like it.

* * *

It was virtually impossible to catch a cab in the Cauldron, so Harley strolled up the street to the neighborhood's decrepit metro station instead, catching the train west to Downtown Gotham. There was a heatwave approaching; she could feel it in the air as she sat on the smelly old train, a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck. It felt like an omen, but for what she didn't know. Her death. The Joker's death. Gotham's descent into a cleanly version of organized crime that somehow played by the rules well enough to get away with it.

Harley preferred Gotham dirty—she preferred its corruption out in the _open_.

She ignored the catcalls she received as she walked up the street from the station to the address Reeves had texted her. It looked like an old, recently-renovated hotel, its red brick and white marble exterior expertly cleaned of the grime that featured so prominently on Downtown properties. The lower third of the main island of Gotham had always been a solidly working-class area, built up in the early twentieth century with neat townhouses and red brick apartment blocks. It had never descended into the same level of desperation as the Eastside, but it was where the mob originally formed, and it had yet to be gentrified.

But by the looks of this old hotel, now a private member's club, someone certainly had gentrifying Downtown in mind.

A doorman wearing a coat with tails and white gloves stood at the top of the old hotel's steps, an iPad in hand. Harley watched from the sidewalk as two people gave their names and the doorman consulted the iPad, then graciously gestured for them to enter through the heavy front doors.

Harley hummed dubiously before lifting her chin and climbing the white marble steps, maintaining a practiced expression of haughty indifference as the doorman smiled at her.

"Good evening, madam," he said with a short bow. "May I have your name?"

"Peaches Kane," Harley replied breezily, projecting entitlement as she watched him swipe the tablet's screen. He offered her a smile and gestured to the door the couple had just passed through.

Harley fought back an exasperated sigh once she was inside the former hotel's foyer, which now operated as a cloakroom. She could already tell what she was in for—a nostalgic ode to Gotham's first Golden Age, when men made their millions off the railroads and newspapers before Teddy Roosevelt broke up their monopolies. And what happened since? Neoliberalism allowed the elite to run amok, hoarding every measly dollar they could get their hands on whether taken fairly or not.

Not having a jacket, Harley passed the couple checking their coats and strode down a mahogany-paneled hallway, following the gentle bursts of saxophone and jazz piano interspersed with delighted laughter and chatter.

Harley's eyes swept the relatively compact room, dimly lit by gilded chandeliers and paneled in more rich mahogany. There was no less than a billiards table on one side, a group of younger men and a few women in suits laughing as they read instructions telling them how to play while they sipped high balls of expensive scotch. Along one wall was a short bar, manned by two men rushing to make cocktails for a small crowd of smug, laughing people.

Harley picked out a few familiar faces, most of them from _Made in the Diamond District_ and _Real Housewives of Gotham_ , both of which had just launched new seasons with the threat of terrorism mostly at Gotham's back. She spotted Lulu Crowne, Bertie Crown's widow, sipping champagne from a coup glass, and Ivania Dumas looped around one of the young stock-broker types playing billiards.

Harley moved through the sparse crowd quickly, not drawing attention to herself as she searched for Reeves. He was at the bar, speaking to a very tall, very muscled man with fair hair, whom Harley recognized but couldn't place.

When she reached Reeves, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he turned to look down at her, still talking out of the corner of his mouth. At first, there was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at Harley—in fact, he seemed to be staring right through her. She lifted her eyebrows expectantly, and something clicked into place for him, his face spreading into a delighted grin.

"Jesus Christ," he laughed, looking her up and down before he glanced over his shoulder at his muscular friend, then leaned in close to Harley. "You look so… Chardonnay at the country club," he smirked, searching her face.

"Are you saying I look like your _wife_ , Reeves?" Harley's mouth lifted up on one side.

He laughed and pulled away from her, looking almost bashful as he waved his friend closer.

"Tommy, this is Peaches Kane," Reeves said smugly, gesturing to Harley.

"Thomas Elliot," the friend greeted her, his voice a deep baritone that matched his bulky physique. He offered one large hand to Harley, who accepted it with an intrigued hum.

"Thomas Elliot of Elliot Pharmaceutical?" She asked innocently, absolutely not giving away that she tested drugs for this man's company when she worked at Arkham. Not to mention, she was currently in the middle of a relationship meltdown with the terrorist who had revealed said company's dubious business practice, which may have all culminated in his family estate getting burned down by homeless people...

 _Ha_.

"I'm happy to say my grandfather's company is no more," Elliot countered politely, not smiling. "It's Elliot Biotech these days."

"Elliot _Biotech_ ," Harley repeated, her eyebrows raising. "Fascinating."

"That's why we're celebrating tonight," Reeves grinned lazily, raising his high ball of scotch. "Daggett Industries just bought Elliot, so Tommy here can finally do some real work now that he's got cash under his belt."

"Correct," Elliot agreed stiffly, meeting Harley's eye as Reeves waved over the bartender. "And how do you know Arthur, Miss Kane?"

"Cambridge," Harley improvised smoothly, remembering Reeves drunkenly telling her he'd studied abroad there. "We were just babies then, but we've stayed in touch over the years."

"How nice," Elliot nodded politely. "And what brings you to Gotham?"

"She wants to donate to Hamilton's campaign, don't you, Peaches?" Reeves grinned, turning away from the bar with a pair of cocktails. "Hope you're still drinking your martinis dry these days," he added, looking delighted with himself.

"Always," Harley smiled patiently and accepted the drink, turning to Elliot. "You're a doctor, aren't you?" she asked, taking a dainty sip.

"Formerly," he replied, looking uncomfortable as he swirled his glass, which Harley noted contained soda water, not booze. "These days I'm focusing on the company."

"I see," Harley purred thoughtfully, just as something behind her caught Elliot's eye.

"Ah, I've just spotted Roman," he said to Reeves. "I'll catch you before I go, Arthur." He nodded to Harley. "Ms Kane," he said, before shuffling away, his soda water in hand.

"He's awkward," Harley noted drily, watching Elliot weave through the crowd. "And muscley."

" _God_ , you’re amazing," Reeves observed incredulously, drawing Harley's attention back to him. "The way you just spun him. Like knowing me from Cambridge…"

"Uh huh," Harley said dismissively, sensing this whole _role-playing_ thing was going to be bedroom material for Reeves and his wife later. "So, what's his deal?" she asked, inclining her head in the direction Elliot had scampered off in.

"Tommy's an old friend from prep school," Reeves explained, sipping his martini.

"Boring," Harley rolled her eyes. "Come on, Reeves, there's something dirtier there."

"Alright," Reeves smirked. "He's an alcoholic. Lost his medical license last year when he turned up to the hospital drunk."

"Mmm, that's more like it," Harley smirked over the rim of her glass. "Who else is here—only the interesting ones."

"See Ivania Dumas over there," Reeves nodded across the room, and Harley glanced over her shoulder, finding the buxom blonde socialite had braced herself on the billiards table, batting her eyelashes at the men fawning over her.

"Her father was reluctant to endorse Hamilton," Reeves explained slyly. "Right up until he learned Ivania had a sex tape, and what it would take to make it go away."

"You truly are a scumbag, Reeves," Harley chuckled fondly.

"Oh, here he comes," Reeves flashed Harley a grin before he waved at his boss. "Hamilton, over here!"

"Christ," Harley muttered, downing the rest of her drink.

Hamilton Hill looked like the kind of man who was supposed to be fat but was currently succeeding in a diet. He was balding and graying with a bushy mustache, and he was darkly tanned like he spent a lot of time on vacation or in a tanning bed. He was outwardly jolly, but there was a familiar gleam in his eye, one Harley recognized from the many ruthless men she knew, and that was what made her eyebrows raise when he slapped a sun-damaged hand down on Reeves' shoulder.

"Reeves!" Hill greeted his campaign manager, his eyes landing on Harley. "Who's your lovely friend!"

"This is Peaches Kane," Reeves grinned. "She's in town for a few weeks."

"Mr Hill," Harley smiled, shaking Hill's hand, and they went through the whole routine of who she was and why she was there and blah blah blah, just like they had with Elliot. Reeves did some very obvious improvising that Harley helped him out of, deciding he would make a terrible criminal.

"I'm surprised they've opened a club like this down here," she said, hoping to get something meaningful out of the prospective Mayor after a solid thirty-plus minutes of bullshit. "Downtown's not exactly the Diamond District."

"That's the whole point!" Hill exclaimed. "This side of town is a shithole, but why! It's close to Midtown, and the land these old buildings are sitting on is worth a fortune. There's no reason you can't build down here, clean the place up and get some respectable folks in the area—you'd make a _mint!_ "

"Isn't that what Bertie Crowne tried to do in the Meatpacking District?" Harley pointed out.

"Ah, poor Bertie," Hill shook his head sadly because the Joker had thrown Bertie Crowne off the top of his own skyscraper a couple of years earlier. "Bertie's problem was the _economy_."

"The economy?" Harley lifted a dubious eyebrow. "The depression ended over thirty years ago."

"You gotta think _bigger,_ Ms Kane," Hill enthused, pumping his fist in the air. "Economic growth has no ceiling! You gotta reach for the stars! That's how you _really_ fight crime—not with a mask and a cape but with a paycheck in your pocket. If people had jobs, they wouldn't have to steal or turn to drugs or join up with that anarchist gang running the Eastside. Mark my words, Ms Kane, when I'm Mayor, I'll clean this whole city up. _That's_ how we're gonna Make Gotham Great Again."

"Wow," Harley said, fighting hard to keep her smile in place. "You're very ambitious."

"You don't build a billion-dollar consulting firm from scratch without a little ambition, Ms Kane," Hill pointed out, wagging a finger in her face.

"Sounds like you'll miss the business world, Mr Hill," Harley observed, her voice dry but her face smiley enough to make up for it.

"I have a good man ready to fill my shoes," Hill beamed proudly, then looked at Reeves. "Speaking of whom, you haven't seen Roman, have you? He keeps slipping off."

"He's downstairs having a chin wag with Tommy Elliot," Reeves said breezily, already on his third martini while they'd been listening to Hill speak at them.

"Good, good," Hamilton nodded soundly. "Uh oh, here comes the lawyer!"

A nervous-looking bespeckled man sidled up beside Hill and began muttering in his ear, making Hill scoff boorishly.

"Ah, Jesus, can't it wait?" he complained. "This is a party! And where's John, huh? I throw him a party, and he doesn't even show?"

"John needs to speak with you too," the lawyer said, keeping his voice low. "He's downstairs."

"Ah, for chrissake," Hill grumbled, downing the last of his scotch. "Good to meet you, Ms Kane," he offered affably, and Harley shot him a pretty smile, wondering what Hill would look like with barbed wire wrapped around his throat.

Reeves braced an elbow on the bar, looking a little drunk as he leaned into Harley's personal space.

"So, what do you think of your future Mayor?" He grinned sloppily at her.

"I think he's in danger of being killed on live television," Harley replied honestly, flagging down the bartender. "Bombay Sapphire, straight up," she requested crisply.

"Waitwaitwait, you don't mean that," Reeves protested. "I mean, you wouldn't _repeat_ yourselves would you? You've already killed one mayor on TV, after all."

Harley turned to look Reeves in the eye, shedding every layer of the charming socialite she'd been pretending to be all night, and the nice girl she'd given him at the wine bar the night before, and even the beguiling criminal he'd met up with at the Stacked Deck. She let him see Harley Quinn, hot-blooded, fearless, and free to kill whomever she wanted without reservation.

"Reeves," Harley said softly, staring into his eyes so she knew she had his attention. "We haven't discussed what will happen to you if you fuck me over."

Reeves paled, quickly sobering up once he realized he'd finally gone too far.

"I will kill you," Harley promised him calmly, holding his gaze. "And I will make sure it's slow and painful… and _personal_." She lifted her hand to trace the tip of her finger along the sharp line of his jaw, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed nervously. "Do you understand?" she asked softly, meeting his eye again.

Reeves nodded mutely, his eyes wide.

"Good," Harley's face split into a rueful grin, and she patted him on the cheek roughly. "Oh, come on! Don't look like that. This is a party, remember!" She slid her fresh drink toward him, and Reeves downed it quickly.

"You really mean that, don't you?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yep," Harley chirped, offering him a smile as she waved the bartender down again. "Another one," she ordered coldly.

"You're incredible," Reeves breathed, making Harley roll her eyes. "I mean it," he insisted, sounding sober now. "You're so beautiful and… and _terrifying_. It's just incredible."

"Yeah, I get it. You've got some kink about living dangerously," Harley shot him a knowing look. "Now, who else is here who's worth speaking to?"

Reeves cleared his throat, apparently realizing he was out of imminent danger. "Looks like Bruce Wayne just arrived," he said, nodding down the bar.

"Fuck," Harley muttered, weighing up the likelihood that Wayne would recognize her. It had been almost two years, but she was pretty sure dancing with someone who turned out to be a terrorist might stick with you. She downed her drink then looked up the bar, expecting to see Bruce Wayne with his smarmy smirk, waggling his eyebrows at some hot blonde in a tight dress.

Harley wasn't far off, but her eyes still widened in surprise.

Wayne had his arm looped around Vicki Vale, both of them smiling as they chatted to Thomas Elliot. It was clear enough they were together, Wayne rolling his eyes bashfully while Vicki laughed at something Elliot said.

Then Vicki saw Harley, and her smile instantly froze, obviously recognizing Harley for who she was.

Harley and Vicki stared at each other for five very long seconds while Harley tried to decide what Vicki would do. Would she scream? Would she tell Wayne? Would she call the cops?

She might have once called Vicki a friend. They did each other favors. Harley was Vicki's source and helped her get promoted, and Vicki got the news Harley wanted people to read printed in the papers. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, and on a personal level, Harley enjoyed Vicki's merciless ambition. They'd even shared a bottle of wine in Vicki's living room once while Harley whined about her relationship troubles.

But In the end, Vicki had her limits, and that limit was blowing up kindergartens.

"I have to go," Harley said quietly, grabbing her clutch off the bar and turning away from Vicki.

"Hang on, hang on, just like that?" Reeves looked disappointed as he followed Harley away from the bar and through the loose crowd of wealthy people. "Let me walk you out at least."

Harley didn't reply or even acknowledge Reeves as she strode through the party and back down the wood-paneled hallway, her ears straining for sirens.

What if Vicki announced to the world that Harley was back via the Globe? _Fuck._

So much for flying under the radar for a little bit longer.

It was approaching midnight, but it was still humid out, that heatwave Harley had sensed slowly settling over the city as she trotted down the white marble steps and prepared to hail a cab.

"Hey, Harley, I mean Peaches, wait!" Reeves pleaded, and Harley turned around to face him, forcing a smile.

"I have something I need to take care of," she told him smoothly, then popped him on the cheek affectionately with her palm. "This was almost fun."

"Almost?" Reeves gave her a sloppy grin and clasped both hands over his heart. "Oh my God, _almost_ fun. What counts as real fun?"

"You wouldn't like my idea of _real_ fun," Harley shot back.

"Try me," Reeves replied suavely, edging closer to her, the booze making him bolder. Then he spotted something over Harley's shoulder, and his eyes widened, the bravado immediately slipping away. He didn't look scared so much as shocked, and when Harley looked behind her, her chest tightened painfully.

Across the street, leaning against a town car beneath the yellow glow of a street lamp stood the Joker, smoking a cigarette. His face wasn't painted, and he was wearing the same black suit he'd had on the last time Harley saw him. He could have passed for a normal man if he wanted to, even with his scars. But his dark eyes were narrowed at them across the street, gleaming in the darkness like a predator, and there was no chance Reeves wouldn't know who he was.

"Shit," Reeves breathed, looking at Harley.

Harley forced another smile and stood on her tiptoes to give Reeves a kiss on the cheek.

"Next time I'll show you some real fun," she promised, then turned on her heel and marched across the street, her face souring.

The Joker watched her cross the street warily, a bitter twist to his mouth. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away just as Harley reached him, but instead of stopping, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, an imitation of a kiss so Reeves would think everything was peachy keen between them.

Harley still hadn't worked out how life was supposed to be without the Joker as her partner, and when she pulled away from him, the question spiraled through her brain like a tornado raging out of control.

"Putting on a show, are we?" the Joker sneered, glancing at Reeves across the street. His lip curled as he lifted a hand to grab the bun at the back of Harley's head.

"J, stop it—" Harley started to protest when his arm snaked around her waist, and he rotated her around so they were in profile for Reeves to see.

Harley shot him a warning look, and he offered her a humorless smile in return, then dipped down to kiss her.

She kissed him back stiffly for Reeves' sake, knowing this wasn’t jealousy or possessiveness, but an intentionally hostile act designed to piss her off, a slap in the face. Anger made her cheeks get hot as she resisted the urge to shove him away, the familiarity of the scar splicing his bottom lip against hers painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.

Harley didn't want it to feel so familiar. She didn't want it to turn her on. She didn't want the taste of him to linger on her tongue for hours like it inevitably would. But then something shifted. She felt his arm tighten around her as his tongue brushed against hers, and she felt his chest expand as he inhaled sharply, and she understood that he was feeling everything that she was. The frustration, the anger, the desire. Suddenly, that intoxicating feeling of _connection_ was back in a way she'd been missing for weeks, tying him to her, and Harley couldn't help herself but lean into it.

Her hands wrapped around the base of his skull as she pressed closer to him. He squeezed her closer too, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, deepening the kiss and making her pulse leap as she sighed weakly, her fingers threading into his hair.

Harley pulled away abruptly, her eyes snapping open, her throat feeling thick as she looked away to collect herself. She waited for a beat, then shot the Joker a dirty look that he returned bitterly, and she withdrew her arms from around his neck as he released her.

She pulled the car door open numbly, and when she bent down to duck her head inside, the Joker suddenly and unexpectedly slapped her ass. _Hard_. Making her skin sting through her dress and lingerie. Harley yelped in surprise as she fell into the car, but when she swung around to scream at him, he slammed the door in her face.

* * *

The members of the Tobacconist's Club exuded wealth and elitism so intensely Vicki could nearly smell it. It wasn't just their diamonds, or their platinum Rolexes, or their expensive glassware, or their even more expensive booze. It was the way they carried themselves and smirked at each other, reveling in the fact that they were members of a small club few were invited to join. She didn't really mind it or even find it distasteful, but the look on Bruce's face when they were cornered by Lulu Crowne reinforced what Vicki already knew; he _hated_ it.

"Brucie!" Lulu preened, offering both her cheeks to Bruce, who kissed them obediently. "I was hoping we'd see you here."

"Good to see you, Wayne," her squirrely-looking son Artie added stiffly, shaking Bruce's hand.

"And who is _this_!" Lulu beamed at Vicki, who stifled an amused smirk.

"Ah, this..." Bruce widened his eyes at Vicki and she widened hers right back, intrigued to see what he’d say. This was the first time they'd gone on a date around Bruce's 'people,' the trust fund brigade, and they hadn't discussed how he would introduce her. "This is my girlfriend," Bruce settled on, offering Vicki a goofy smile as he slid an arm around her waist. "Vicki Vale," he beamed down at her.

"Vicki Vale?" Lulu did a poor job hiding her shock that Bruce Wayne was dating a woman best known for her tabloid journalism. "Well... it is _lovely_ to meet you, Ms Vale!" she added, forcing a sickly-sweet smile that Vicki returned, trying not to laugh.

"Wow, I've never seen someone _actually_ clutch their pearls before," Vicki grinned once Lulu and Artie made their excuses.

"I'm sorry," Bruce sighed, looking conflicted as they made their way to the bar. "These people are..."

"Hey," Vicki stopped short and smiled up at Bruce, laying a hand on his cheek to make sure she had his attention. "I could not give less of a shit," she promised him _._ "I just want to laugh at them and find one who can help me sell some papers, okay?"

Bruce laughed quietly. "Alright," he agreed.

"Alright," Vicki beamed, tugging him up to the bar. "Let's get a drink and see what kind of gossip we can sniff out."

Bruce ordered Vicki a scotch and soda water for himself, and they settled in to survey the room when a tall, muscled man with fair hair approached them uncertainly.

"Bruce," he nodded awkwardly, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Tommy," Bruce faltered. "Uh, hey... _hey,_ good to see you, man!" he laughed boorishly and grabbed Tommy's hand, pulling him into an embrace Tommy didn't seem to expect or want, his face tense.

"Vicki, this is my oldest friend," Bruce said smugly, laying on some of the asshole schtick he used when he was uncomfortable. "Tommy Elliot."

"Hello," Elliot nodded at Vicki, not offering her his hand. "You're Vicki Vale," he observed, without feeling.

"I am," Vicki confirmed cheerfully, looking between Bruce and Elliot a few times, wondering what the hell was going on there. "Congratulations, by the way," she continued holding up her drink in cheers. "You must be so pleased to be working with Daggett Industries."

"Yeah," Elliot agreed, shrugging. "We've been putting a lot of resources into the company so it's um, good to see it paying off. Daggett are being very generous."

"I'm happy for you, Tommy," Bruce announced, slapping his old friend on the back. "I'm sure you'll do great things together."

"That's what the Hill Consulting people say," Elliot agreed awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. "I know you're not a big fan of what they do but—"

"Hey, no judgment," Bruce held up his hands and gave Elliot a smarmy grin. "So, you've got Hill working for you too, huh?"

"I don't think I'm allowed to talk about it," Elliot looked disgruntled. "They've got iron-clad NDAs. My lawyer was literally sweating when we came out of that meeting."

"Wow," Vicki's eyebrows rose. "Makes you wonder what they're hiding."

"Probably something not very nice," Elliot admitted, looking uncomfortable. "So, um, how's Alfred doing?"

"The same," Bruce said drily, shifting into his more natural tone. "He still thinks he's hilarious."

"You're the only one who doesn't think Alfred's funny," Elliot cracked a smile for the first time, looking at Vicki. "One time, after Alfred caught Bruce with his first girlfriend, he—"

"Okay, okay," Bruce interjected, looking embarrassed. "We do not need to relive my teenage humiliation."

"Oh, I am so getting that story out of Alfred later," Vicki grinned, laughing along with Elliot, when someone over his shoulder caught her eye.

There was a beautiful blonde woman at the other end of the bar. She wore a simple black dress, her hair tied back in a neat chignon, her ears and throat decorated with over-sized pearls. She didn't stand out among the myriad of other beautiful, wealthy women present, but she was offering the man she was speaking to a disarming smile that didn't reach her eyes, and it was her eyes that Vicki recognized. They were a glacial blue, cold and calculating, intelligent and... _alive_.

It was Harley Quinn, Vicki realized, the smile freezing on her face.

Harley Quinn was standing right _there_. Just ten feet away.

Then Harley caught Vicki's eye, recognition flashing across her face, sending panic racing through Vicki like an electrical current. They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity, Harley's expression unreadable, possibly wondering how Vicki was going to react just as Vicki was wondering how Harley would react. Then Harley turned and breezed into the crowd as if nothing had happened, and Vicki watched her walk away helplessly, feeling like she'd been sucker-punched as she took note of the man Harley had been speaking to rushing after her.

Suddenly, a torrent of moments and memories swept over Vicki. Everything from those early stories she'd written about Arkham back when Harley's boss was leaking stories about the Joker, to the day Harley first approached her on a park bench with a juicy scoop about the drug war. From there, it had spiraled until one afternoon, Harley handed over former Detective Ana Ramirez to give an account of what _really_ happened to Harvey Dent, and Vicki had run with it, not so much as questioning Harley's motivation. Then three days later, Harley and the Joker blew up four kindergartens off the back of that information being in the public domain.

Vicki remembered having Harley in her apartment, drinking wine and Campari with her. She remembered talking to Harley outside a hotel room, her lips swollen because she'd spent the afternoon in bed with her boyfriend, who just happened to be the Joker. Vicki remembered thinking Harley was actually pretty funny, and that it was kind of _sweet_ albeit twisted how she thought her relationship with the Joker was normal.

And Vicki remembered watching those kindergartens crumble, and being horrified by all of it, especially of herself.

And everything that had come next.

Harley was supposed to be dead. If she wasn't dead, that meant she was back for a _reason_ , a thought that made Vicki's pulse leap nervously.

"Can I get you a drink?" Elliot was asking Bruce.

"Soda water for me, thanks," Bruce grinned toothily, apparently enjoying himself. "Vicki?"

"Um," Vicki licked her lips as she watched the man Harley had been speaking to slip back into the club, a satisfied smirk on his lips. "Who's that?" she asked before she could help herself.

Bruce and Elliot looked in the direction she was staring.

"Arthur Reeves," Elliot said while Bruce waved him over. "He's Hill's campaign manager."

"And another alumnus of St Regis Boys School," Bruce added drolly.

"Bruce Wayne!" Reeves beamed, slapping Bruce on the back. He was tall and handsome like a polo player with all the swagger and privilege that came with it. Vicki instantly disliked him, and not just because he’s been speaking to Harley. "Good to see you, man, good to see you," Reeves blustered. "Look at you guys—this is like a reunion!"

"Roman's here somewhere too," Elliot noted, looking around again.

"Ah, he's downstairs with John and the lawyers," Reeves waved him off. "He never stops working. Now... who is _this_?"

He looked Vicki over, examining her like an object, and Vicki had to fight back a scowl.

"Vicki Vale," she introduced herself, forcing a smile and wondering if he knew who Harley really was.

"Vicki Vale!" Reeves grinned, shaking her hand. "Wow, what a thrill!"

That old sixth sense for a good story, the one Vicki had spent nearly a year trying to quash, jumped to life suddenly, fighting for oxygen despite her better judgment.

"I hear you're Hamilton Hill's campaign manager?" Vicki asked, perfectly polite and unable to help herself. "We'd be very interested in profiling our potential future mayor in the Globe Magazine."

"Oh, ho!" Reeves beamed. "My understanding was the Globe wasn't taking sides in this race." He shot Bruce a pointed look because Bruce had yet to endorse Hill like all the other wealthy elites.

"This wouldn't be taking sides," Vicki replied, feeling Bruce frowning at her. "We just want people to be well informed before they vote."

"I'll tell you what, Ms Vale, I think that's a great idea," Reeves smirked. "Let me speak to Hamilton and our PR girl, and we can schedule an interview."

"Perfect," Vicki said, her face aching from smiling.

* * *

Harley stared numbly out the tinted window, her heart thumping hard in her neck, and her ass stinging where the Joker slapped her—a little show of ownership for Reeves' benefit. She couldn't decide if she was pissed off or indignant or heartbroken as she fell back against the leather seat and stared straight ahead.

The Joker folded himself into the seat beside Harley, and she turned to glare at him incredulously as Frost pulled away from the curb. He slumped down, his long legs splayed out in front of him, ignoring her as he popped a cigarette between his lips and patted down his jacket until he found a disposable lighter, thumbing the spark at least ten times before a flame finally jumped to life. He rolled his head in a circle, the bones popping disconcertingly as he exhaled a stream of smoke and tucked the lighter back in his suit jacket, still ignoring Harley.

He had a lousy track record with lighters, always losing them and only ever able to find broken ones or ones on their last legs, the final drops of lighter fluid slopping around inside the brightly colored plastic.

Harley had pilfered a silver-plated zippo off a mercenary's body when they were in El Salvador. It had the owner's initials engraved on the side— PG —and later that night in their unairconditioned hotel room, sweaty and sticky with sex and Antioqueno, they'd made each other laugh trying to guess the mercenary's name, each guess more ridiculous than the last. Percival Gyro. Paddy Gotcha. Pedro Giggles. The Joker managed to hold onto that zippo all through their travels until they got back to Gotham, though it seemed he'd lost it since. A perfect metaphor for what had happened to their relationship since getting back to this hellhole.

"How did you know where I was?" Harley demanded, her throat feeling thick as she tried to move past the storm of emotion swirling inside her. He didn't _deserve_ that from her.

He exhaled another cloud of smoke, filling the car with the acrid smell as he dipped his head toward Harley, offering her a smile completely lacking humor or affection.

"Lonnie hacked Red's phone," he informed her lazily. "So uh, he tracked ya down since you've _always_ got that thing on you."

Harley blinked hard twice. The encrypted phone was supposed to be impossible to track. But if anyone could crack it, Lonnie would.

"So you've been keeping track of me?" she spat indignantly, an ancient flare of irritation that he would try to control her cutting through everything else.

"Nah," he drawled, staring at the back of Frost's seat instead of looking at her. "Just tonight. I got an errand for ya."

"An _errand_?" Harley scowled, her heart slamming against her breastbone furiously.

"Calm down, _doll face_ ," the Joker rolled his eyes, another dig because he knew she hated it when he used pet names, and he only ever used them when he was trying to annoy her or hurt her like he was now.

They'd driven just a few blocks when Frost pulled into a dark alley, the only illumination coming from the street, which didn't reach the dark corners.

The Joker promptly climbed out of the car while Harley remained frozen in place. Then he ducked his head back in, blowing smoke into the car.

"C'mon, _cupcake_ , I ain't got all night," he complained, slamming the door shut.

Harley caught Frost's eye in the rearview mirror, but he quickly looked away too. At a loss and without any other options, Harley pushed her door open and climbed out into the alley.

There was an old, wood-paneled station wagon idling at the end of the alley, the reading light on in the front seat, though Harley couldn't see who was behind the wheel. She heard the town car's trunk pop open, and she turned to join the Joker at the back of the car numbly.

She wasn't overly surprised to see Janice Porter unconscious and bruised in the trunk, though Harley had almost forgotten about the job Lucy offered them. But now that the DA was right in front of her, she remembered how bizarre it was that the Joker agreed to it in the first place. It solidified her suspicion that he was up to something without her, and the overt hostility she was now on the receiving end of only confirmed it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"You can keep the six grand," the Joker said gruffly, pulling a new cigarette out of the pack with his teeth, and lighting it off the one he'd just finished. Harley watched him flick the butt away and start the new one, her eyes widening as she once again tried and failed to understand what was going on with him. "Just drop her off with Lucy," he instructed, shooting Harley a dubious look before he slammed the trunk shut on Janice and loped off down the alley without another word.

Harley watched him climb into the passenger seat of the station wagon as the old engine rumbled to life, and the car sped backward out of the alley, the bald tires squealing as it fishtailed on the street and took off into the night.

The anger was leaking out of her, making her eyes start to sting. So she tried to hold onto her anger, refusing to let it melt into something far more painful that she couldn't control.

* * *

**A/N: oooooooh the ANGST.**

**There are answers coming next week.  
**

**Vicki and Harley reunion!**

**We also got a relatively unrevealing first look at Roman (and Circe!) earlier in this chapter— he seems nice, right? I have Rami Malek in mind for Roman. The man is begging to be cast as a sophisticated villain type.**

**Lots of little clues in the Tobacconist's Club. We also had a cameo from Tommy Elliot (aka Hush) who is *begging* me to write some future installment. For now he's just making a cameo which is more fun than an OC.**

**I finally saw Birds of Prey! So much fun!  
**

**_Next: Harley drops the DA off at the Iceberg Lounge and an old friend reappears with unnerving information._ **

**Please review! They feed my very needy ego and my even needier soul.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Previously: The Joker tasks a heartbroken Harley with dropping Janice Porter off with Lucy at the Iceberg Lounge.**

_Theme: Planningtorock - 'Drama Darling' (Maxi Edit) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/hVdJE7iMR6s)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2TTMqoYO9Tyy0E9itH7UNz?si=52KRN5MlSrekHhlPoEAiBw))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

4.

* * *

As Frost drove her Uptown, Harley could feel him looking at her in the rearview mirror, checking on her, she guessed. He was a weird one, at least compared to their usual henchmen—soft-spoken, thoughtful, obedient, _smart_. He had disciple written all over him, and if Harley wasn't so fucking pissed off and miserable, she might have appreciated him caring.

_Nah._

Harley turned the smartphone she used to stay in touch with Pam over in her hands. It felt tainted now that she knew the Joker could use it to keep an eye on her. Fucking _Lonnie._

She tucked the phone in her purse and scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling sick and empty inside. This was not sustainable, this _lingering_ as her partnership with the Joker devolved into outright hostility. She could either stick around to see how it played out, which appeared likely to be a long, drawn-out, painful process... or she could cut the cord and leave.

Harley started to make a plan. She had ten thousand dollars cash, and once she dropped Janice Porter off with Lucy, she'd have another six grand to add to that. She had a fake passport waiting for her back at the safe house. She didn't need much more than that to buy a first-class ticket to Melbourne, where she could meet up with Pam.

It would be easy. Deal with Janice. Collect the six grand. Have Frost drive her back to the safe house. Kill him. Grab the passport and change clothes. Call Pam to let her know she was on the way. Destroy the encrypted phone so she couldn't be traced. Drive Frost's car to the airport. Get on a plane. Get off in Melbourne. No more Joker. No more lingering. No more uncertainty.

Frost pulled the car into the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge and turned the engine off, then turned around to look at Harley in the backseat, his face sinking into a deep frown.

"You alright, doc?" he asked, looking concerned.

"Pop the trunk. Stay in the car," she snapped, pushing her door open and slipping out into the warm night air.

The walls of the club were vibrating with the _thud-thud-thud_ of bass from the music playing inside. Two exceptionally attractive bouncers were guarding the back entrance, and Harley thought it was a very _Lucy_ touch to make sure her henchmen were good looking.

She looked between them quickly, sizing them up, then gestured to Janice Porter's unconscious form in the trunk.

"I have a delivery for Lucy," she announced, her throat feeling thick as the bouncers shot each other dubious looks.

"Are you on the guest list, miss?" one of them asked. "Can I take your name?"

Harley narrowed her eyes, and they both visibly tensed.

"Get Lucy," she snarled outright. "Before I get _impatient_."

The bouncers looked at each other again, then one pressed a finger to his ear and turned away.

Harley rotated around, so her back was to them, and rubbed both of her hands over her face, trying to push away _everything_.

"Wow, that was quick!"

Harley whirled around at the sound of Lucy's voice, her eyes widening. Lucy was wearing an electric-blue dress, its strapless bodice covered in sparkling rhinestones, its skirt ruffled like a ballerina, showing off Lucy's long, coltish legs. Her hair was crimped and teased sky high, a floppy blue bow securing it to one side, and her green eyes glittered with pink eyeshadow. Harley thought she looked like a Barbie doll from the 80s.

"Hey," Lucy's smile faltered when she saw Harley's face. "Are you okay?"

"Just give me my money," Harley snapped.

"Oh," Lucy's eyes widened, and she glanced back at the bouncers. "Bobby, can ya ask the guys to bring the van around?" she flashed Harley a smile. "Hey, why dontcha come on inside!"

Harley never wanted to go through that backdoor ever again. The Iceberg Lounge held nothing but horrific, depressing memories for her, including her last outing with the Joker. But she wanted to get paid, so she nodded quickly, and followed Lucy through the backdoors into what used to be the club's kitchen. It had since been turned into a sitting area, with a Persian carpet flanked by expensive brown leather sofas, a glass coffee table hosting a crystal-cut decanter between them.

Trying not to tap her foot impatiently, Harley waited as Lucy disappeared into Penguin's old office and reappeared with an envelope thick with cash. Harley ripped it out of her hand and yanked the money out, not bothering to count it as she shoved it in her clutch then turned to leave.

"Harley, do ya wanna come have a drink or something?" Lucy asked, sounding concerned. Everyone was so _concerned_. "Just one? It might do ya good if you're having a bad night, you know?"

Harley stopped short, knowing that if she kept acting erratically, it would come back to bite her. A drink was just what she needed to calm herself down so she could think clearly and plan properly, rather than running off half-cocked like she currently was.

From the kitchen, she could hear the music in the club change, a new track opening with the _thud-thud-thud_ of a bass drum quickly joined by a nervous staccato of synthesizers. Harley listened to the crowd cheer as a bouncy bassline picked up, the song building into a frantic 80s pop song even she recognized.

She nodded silently, and Lucy's pretty face split into a happy grin.

"Well, c'mon then," she beamed, heading for the old kitchen doors, which led into her absurd birdcage. "Ed makes the best martinis in town," she added, tossing another pink smile over her shoulder.

Harley took a breath to calm herself before she followed Lucy through the curtains but stopped short once she was on the other side, immediately on her guard.

Alberto Falcone and Fats Gambol were sitting on a magenta chaise lounge, talking with their heads close together. Alberto held a cigarette out to the side as he spoke into Fats' ear while Fats nodded along eagerly.

The last time Harley saw Fats, she'd stabbed him through the hand repeatedly while the Joker threatened his girlfriend, Lucia Viti, Alberto's cousin.

More bizarre: Standing guard beside the crystal curtains separating the VIP area from the dancefloor was Victor Zsasz. He looked bored but content, his bald head bobbing in time to the bass line as he kept an eye out for potential threats to Lucy's safety.

That wasn't the sadistic freak who tore Harley's fingernails off with pliers, she realized uneasily. That was someone else entirely.

"C'mon, let's get a drink!" Lucy grinned, gesturing for Harley to follow her.

Harley stepped past Victor into the sea of bodies moving in time together, their voices almost rising above the music itself as they sang along to the chorus like a congregation worshipping at the altar of 80s synth-pop.

Most of the crowd was young, dressed like Lucy in flamboyant 80s get-ups, but there were men and women of the stockbroker variety like Harley had seen at the Tobacconist's Club too. They'd shed their jackets before joining the dancefloor, their sweat-stained shirts and blouses shining beneath the flashing pink and purple lights as they danced with the younger clubbers.

There was a velvet rope separating the dancers from a more exclusive group. Bobby and Kennedy Kane from _Made in the Diamond District_ were there, dancing with Lucia Viti and Mario Falcone. Harley watched incredulously as Mario mimed lassoing his cousin, who bounced toward him with a goofy smile, singing along to the chorus and tossing her thick black hair.

"C'mon Harley d'you want that drink or not!" Lucy shouted over the music, grinning as she grabbed Harley's hand and led her around the edge of the dancefloor toward the bar.

The bartender who served them drinks before was behind the bar again tonight, wiggling his shoulders and grinning as he shook a cocktail shaker. His strawberry-blonde hair was coiffed into horns on either side of his head, an ode to the night's theme, and he was wearing the same pink eyeshadow as Lucy.

"Buttery nipples anyone!" He chirped, emptying the contents of the cocktail shaker into a line of shot glasses on the bar.

Lucy threw her head back and laughed before grabbing a shot and turning to Harley, beaming.

Harley only realized then that Lucy was high as a kite.

And it wasn't just her—so was everyone else in the room.

Harley accepted a buttery nipple warily, clinking the glass against Lucy and Ed's. It tasted more like dessert than booze, and she made a face as she lowered the shot glass back on the bar, her eyes drifting around the room again as she tried to put a finger on what _exactly_ it was that didn't feel right to her. Like she was missing something. _Again._

"Who's your gorgeous friend!" Ed grinned, grabbing a fresh cocktail shaker and pouring out a hearty measure of gin and a splash of dry vermouth. Dry martinis. Harley's drink of choice. She refrained from narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"Ahh... this is, uhh..." Lucy faltered, not wanting to give Harley away.

"Peaches," Harley offered, watching Ed's face as he mixed up the martinis. He was handsome too—the only kind of man Lucy employed apparently—with high cheekbones and perfect pale skin that was almost translucent. His hazel eyes glittered mischievously when he met Harley's, and for a split second, she thought she saw a flash of recognition there. But it was gone just as quickly, and he was beaming at her like he was thrilled just to have her there.

"Tell us a joke, Ed!" Lucy pleaded.

"What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?" Ed shouted over the music. "A penny!" He whooped, pouring the martinis into glasses with a swift, polished flick of his wrist.

Lucy threw her head back and laughed again. "Isn't he hilarious, Har-Peaches!"

"Not really," Harley shouted back distractedly. She downed the martini in a few gulps then slammed the glass down on the bar, preparing to leave.

"Oh, Peaches, you need to loosen _up_!" Ed sang, doing a little two-step behind the bar.

He grabbed a bottle of gin and a tumbler and poured out at least six measures, the clear liquid bubbling in the bottle as it glugged out of the pour spout. He shoved it toward Harley and flashed a set of perfect white teeth as she cautiously accepted the tumbler.

"C'mon!" Lucy grinned, grabbing Harley's hand and dragging her back to the birdcage.

Mario and Bobby Kane had their ties wrapped around their heads now, their jackets were thrown off while Lucia and Kennedy Kane partnered up for a sexy salsa-style dance. Harley swallowed a mouthful of gin, too bemused to do anything but drink and follow Lucy back into the VIP area where Victor offered her a dopey little salute that Harley decided she couldn't worry about at the moment.

She lowered herself down onto the purple chaise lounge to sit beside Lucy, keeping one eye on Alberto and Fats as she sipped her drink while Lucy pulled a vape pen out of her clutch, which was blue satin and ringed with pearls.

The whole club looked like Lucy had exploded all over it, Harley realized. The pink crystals, the magenta couches, the cheetah print, the buttery nipples. After Penguin went away, the Iceberg Lounge floundered. How the fuck did she afford to turn it around like this?

Lucy pulled a small glass vial filled with violet-colored powder out of her bag. She scooped out a small amount with a little spoon attached to the vial's lid, and sniffed it up, then flashed Harley a bright smile as she tucked it away in her clutch.

Harley had questions. Many of them.

"So, you and Mario, huh?" Harley shouted over the music, her eyes drifting to where Mario and Bobby Kane were karate chopping the air as they danced around one another in a bizarre male mating ritual.

"Yeah," Lucy sighed happily, looking lovesick as she watched her boyfriend make a fool of himself. "Oh, Harley, he's wonderful, I'm tellin' you."

"Really? I heard he was an idiot," Harley said honestly.

Lucy laughed as if Harley had just made a hilarious joke, which Harley supposed she kind of had. She was used to Lucy glaring or scowling at her when she made snarky comments, but it seemed love, drugs, and a thriving club made her far more tolerant.

"Ya know, most guys when they go to the joint, it hardens them up and makes them mean," Lucy leaned closer so she didn't have to shout. "Not Mario, he's a big sweetheart, you know?"

"Uh huh," Harley said flatly. "So, Mario Falcone's just a big teddy bear?"

"Yeah," Lucy sighed dreamily, then she offered Harley a pretty smile. "So how's things with you?"

"Oh, you know, same old same old," Harley shrugged, sipping her drink. It made her tongue feel loose and helped her shake off some of the unbearable tension that had been twisting her up in knots since she left the Tobacconist's Club.

"Same old, same old," Lucy laughed. "Nothing with you is ever the _same_ or _old_ , know what I mean?"

"No," Harley said, distracted when Alberto disappeared into the old kitchens and reappeared a moment later with something tucked under his arm. "Staying the same is boring," Harley added, her attention fixed firmly on Alberto.

He sat daintily on the couch and crossed his legs, then handed Fats what had to be at least five kilos of Blue Orchid, wrapped up tight in plastic.

Harley drained the rest of her drink to cover the fact that she was openly staring as Fats stood and shook Alberto's hand before fetching his girlfriend from the dancefloor. Alberto lit a cigarette and pulled out a cell phone, his Italian leather shoe bouncing along to the music as he tapped out a text.

Harley had dealt with enough drug dealers and mobsters to know that quantity of drugs was more than your standard drug deal. That was a _supplier_ side exchange. She slowly turned back to Lucy, her sense that there was something strange going on, that she was _missing_ something, intensifying tenfold.

"There's nothin' boring about you, Harley," Lucy gushed. "That's probably why the Joker likes ya so much, I'm guessin'."

"Probably," Harley agreed moodily.

"I remember that day you came over here looking for Victor," Lucy continued, digging through her pearl-encrusted clutch to retrieve the small vial of BO again. "And he came looking for ya, but he didn't have his face painted. I remember thinking shit, he looks so _normal_ , ya know? But you can still _tell_ it's him."

"Yeah," Harley sighed, setting her empty glass on the floor, wishing Ed would show up with another one.

Lucy scooped up a small bump of BO, but instead of taking it for herself, she lifted her anime-like eyes to Harley's.

"Ya want some?" she asked innocently.

The word 'no' was on the tip of Harley's tongue as a reflex. She liked a stiff drink or three, especially to help her relax after some especially chaotic work, or like tonight, when she just wanted to blot the world out. Anything harder than that wasn't part of her wheelhouse. It just didn't interest her and was too much of a hassle. Besides, drug addicts and drug dealers were _so_ dull. But this stuff, Blue Orchid, this had her very curious indeed.

"Sure," she shrugged and lowered her head to sniff up the small pile of purple Lucy was offering her.

It hit her like a bolt of lightning. Harley almost gasped as euphoria spread through her whole body in a single, powerful wave. Once the wave passed, an intensely satisfying sense of calm settled over her, making her feel so light she was nearly floating. It felt like scratching an itch deep inside her brain, something that made Harley realize she just didn't _care_. About _anything._

She laughed incredulously.

"It's good, huh?" Lucy grinned, taking a bump for herself. She closed her eyes, indulging in the high before she rolled her head toward Harley to beam at her.

"It's okay," Harley agreed, feeling herself mirroring Lucy's smile. A little bit stupid. A little bit sweet. "How did you do this?"

"Do what?" Lucy asked, tucking the BO back in her bag and swigging the last of her martini.

"The club, how did you turn it into _this_?" Harley gestured to the swelling crowd of dancers throwing their hands up to another song Harley recognized.

"Oh, you know," Lucy shrugged mildly. "A little bit of luck, a good boss with a lot of money."

"A good boss, huh?" Harley raised an eyebrow as she started swaying with the music. She remembered she was supposed to find out about bosses, especially those of a mysterious persuasion, but at the moment, she just didn't _care_.

"Penguin was a good boss," Lucy said, turning melancholic. "I wonder what he'd think about all this."

"Are you kidding? He'd _hate_ it," Harley checked over her shoulder to see if Ed was en route with more drinks.

"You think?" Lucy frowned.

"Fuck yes," Harley shot back, her hand fluttering through the air to emphasize her point. "Penguin's a manic narcissist. He would be _jealous_ , Lucy. He'd try to take you down."

"You don't think he'd be proud of me?" Lucy looked hurt, making Harley scoff impatiently.

"Why do you give a shit what Penguin would think?" Harley asked, blinking hard—suddenly, she could _feel_ the music as if it was threading through her ears and into her brain, like yarn unraveling. Her eyes closed and she gave in to the sensation, letting it consume her.

"Before Penguin gave me a job, I was dancing at the fuckin' Cheetah Bar," Lucy explained sourly. "He saw something in me. I guess the new boss does too. He's the only reason I got to turn this place around—I dunno where I'd be without him."

"The _new_ boss?" Harley's eyes snapped open. "Lucy, look at this place. Everything is _Lucy,_ and these people love it. _You're_ the boss here."

"You really think so?" Lucy asked warily.

Harley narrowed her eyes and searched Lucy's face, thinking back over their history together. Something had happened to Lucy to bottle up her sassy, spunky attitude since Harley last saw her, most likely this new boss she spoke so highly of. Usually, Harley wouldn't be interested in boosting someone's self-esteem, so maybe it was the drugs, or maybe Harley just didn't like seeing women be controlled by society or men or anyone else. Or _maybe_ it was because Harley had always sensed there was more to Lucy, and she was curious to see what Lucy was capable of…

"Your boss has money. That makes him useful to you, but useful people are expendable once they've given you what you want," Harley said, watching Lucy's eyes widen in surprise. "You're smarter than you pretend to be, and you have good instincts," Harley pointed a finger in Lucy's face, holding her gaze steadily. " _That_ makes you dangerous. Never forget it."

Lucy blinked hard, looking bewildered as she stared back at Harley.

"You don't think money makes you powerful?" she asked hesitantly.

"Money doesn't _mean_ anything," Harley countered, leaning forward. "Real power is freedom, and you're the only one who can decide if you want it or not," Harley narrowed her eyes. "If you want freedom, you don't pay for it, you _take_ it, and you do not apologize for _anything_."

There was a beat of silence in which Lucy continued to eye Harley suspiciously like she was uncertain if this advice was coming in good faith. Then her pink lips slowly spread into a grin, the message sinking in.

"It's kinda weird you saying nice things to me, Harley," she pointed out.

"Why, because I'm a _terrorist_?" Harley widened her eyes.

"No, 'cause you're an _asshole_ ," Lucy grinned, making Harley throw her head back and laugh at the ceiling.

Lucy got her vial of BO out again, offering Harley a bump and doing one herself. This time, Harleys' eyes rolled back in her head as she breathed through the initial high, leaving her feeling like her blood was buzzing as it gushed through her veins. She examined her arm and the thin blue lines beneath her skin, all of which seemed to be _vibrating_ in time with the relentless bursts of a synthesizer from the club's speakers. The dance floor was screaming the chorus, and all of it seemed to bleed into one all-encompassing hive of movement that made Harley giggle stupidly.

"You wanna dance?" Lucy grinned, her shoulders wiggling, and Harley looked down to see her own shoulders were rolling erratically.

"I don't dance," she protested, watching her body move, bewildered.

"Whaddya mean you don't dance," Lucy laughed.

"I mean you have to like music to dance, music doesn't do anything for me," Harley explained, her mouth moving faster than she could keep up with it. "I can pretend, I can move like you're supposed to move, but I don't feel anything."

 _Psychopath_ , a voice in the deepest recesses of her brain whispered.

Suddenly, Harley remembered going to the opera with her college boyfriend, the one she murdered with a hammer, her first kill. They'd seen Mefistofele, and he'd cried, but Harley hadn't felt anything. When he asked what she thought, she shrugged helplessly, not understanding what all the fuss was about. Music never got to her, just like movies, plays, books; nothing made her feel anything. Nothing made her cry. She'd always had to pretend for the sake of those around her—even Pam. The Joker was the only person who really knew her, who accepted her as she was. He understood. He made her _feel_ things.

Harley had to take a deep breath to calm her racing pulse; it was pounding in her throat like she was running a marathon.

 _Never tell a psychopath they're a psychopath,_ another voice whispered, more aggressively.

Ed arrived then, sweeping into the birdcage with a tray of drinks balanced on one hand. He and Lucy exchanged well-worn banter and they all squealed together, Harley joining in because she couldn't help herself but laugh and laugh and laugh. Ed pushed another gin-filled tumbler into her hands, and when Harley caught his eye, she saw the same mischievous glint she'd noticed earlier, and she knew he was pretending for the people around him, just like she did.

Was he lying to himself like Harley used to before she met the Joker?

Or was he performing for a useful, expendable crowd as Harley so frequently did…

"You alright, Harley?" Lucy cooed once Ed was gone, and Harley offered her a sloppy smile.

"I'm thinking a lot," she admitted.

"About the Joker?" Lucy's face twisted sympathetically.

"No," Harley said haltingly, realizing that aside from a few blips, he was mostly absent from her mind. "About _me._ "

"I could tell you were pissed off at him the other night," Lucy said, her eyelids drooping as she patted Harley's arm in a show of comfort.

"He's an asshole too," Harley shrugged, shooting Lucy a smirk. "That's why I like him so much."

Lucy cracked up, folding forward and grabbing her ankles as she howled with laughter, and Harley sat back, enjoying watching her.

 _You can't spell Slaughter without Laughter,_ a voice that sounded like Ed's camp drawl chimed in.

Harley started cracking up too, holding onto Lucy's arm as she swayed back and forth, laughing hysterically. She didn't know why she was laughing, but it felt fucking great.

Then she caught Victor staring at them, looking amused as he loitered near the dance floor. He was heavily armed and not bothering to hide it, with four semi-automatic pistols and multiple rounds of spare ammunition stashed neatly in a holster beneath his well-tailored suit jacket. A watchful guardian dedicated to Lucy's safety.

"What the fuck happened to Victor anyway?" Harley demanded as Lucy pulled the vial of BO out again.

"Ah, the boss had a word with him," she said dreamily. "I couldn't stand him before, but the boss says he's good to have around."

"Huh," was all Harley could think of to say to that. Another song she knew came on, the bass line bouncing in on top of candy-floss synthesizers and digital drums, making Harley's skin vibrate.

"Let's dance!" Lucy pleaded again, and Harley protested again even though she was swaying back and forth where she sat, her head bobbing and shoulders twitching. The music felt visceral. Like she could see it floating through the air around her, so real she could reach out and grab it.

Lucy offered Harley another bump to ' _get her over the edge_ ,' and Harley sniffed it up obediently, the driving need for more, more, more, not making her question it.

White spots appeared in front of her eyes, and her body seemed to float weightlessly off the chaise lounge, everything around her thundering with life like a living body. Then the white spots disappeared, and Lucy was in front of her again, beaming wildly. But this time her face was painted chalky white, her eyes ringed with black, her mouth smeared red. Harley reached out to touch Lucy's painted cheek, exhilarated by what she was seeing. She knew it was a hallucination. _See shit_ , Bullock had said. But she didn't care.

Harley's head lolled to the side, and she saw Alberto watching her from his post on the cheetah-print armchair, his face painted too. Lucy took her hand and pulled her off the couch, leading her out of the birdcage onto the swollen dancefloor. They'd gotten rid of the velvet rope, the plebian party monsters converging upon the elites, and Harley was swept out into the heaving crowd, relying on their moving bodies to keep her upright, their painted faces a comforting hum around her.

Song after song after song played, and Harley danced through them all, her eyes rolling back in her head as she swayed through a messy two-step. She was a terrible dancer, just like she was a terrible dresser—more examples of how she had to pretend. But right now, she didn't care enough to pretend.

Then suddenly Ed was in front of her, his clown warpaint impeccably applied. He wore it better than all the rest, Harley thought as he grabbed her hand and spun her around.

"Well _, well_ ," he sang, sounding delighted and _mean_. "Look at _you."_

Harley's tongue had grown heavy and stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she couldn't think of anything to say anyway. She only knew the driving sensation that told her to keep going, which blocked out everything else. Every worry, every suspicion, every anxiety, every _fear_. They were gone.

Then over Ed's shoulder, someone caught Harley's eye, cutting through the haze of drugs cloaking her. The painted faces were still bouncing around her, including Lucy, Mario, and Ed, but up in the birdcage, watching them all with a critical eye was a man she didn't recognize. His black hair was curly, cut short on the sides and long on top, his cheekbones were high, and his jaw was strong and sharp. But it was his eyes that drew Harley in. Sunken, empty, bug-like as if they were trying to escape his skull, and smeared with black greasepaint just like the Joker's. He was staring right at her, Harley realized, and then she saw Alberto Falcone whisper in this man's ear.

A smirk pulled at the man's painted lips, but before Harley could form a coherent thought, she was swept away on another wave of euphoria.

* * *

The art dealers in South Channel were a complete waste of time. Dinah took out two of them so she could question a third, holding a taser to his neck as she hauled him up against the side of a shipping container. They were selling knock-offs shipped in illegally from China, and they wouldn't know a real Jackson Pollock or Francis Bacon work if it bit them on the ass. So, if the Riddler was hawking his stolen treasures, it certainly wouldn't be to these con artists.

Dinah knocked the thug out and tied him up with the other two, then sent Lieutenant Essen a text in case the GCPD were interested in arresting them. She doubted they would—Commissioner Akins had mostly abandoned the Eastside, focusing on cleaning up Downtown and keeping the rich people safe in the main island of Gotham proper.

Essen replied with another tip, an address Uptown, which turned out to be a fancy gym, making Dinah's eyebrows knit together as she peered at it through the night vision goggles Lucius made for her. She hid the Batpod in an alley behind the building and headed for the parking garage, sticking to the shadows like Bruce taught her. The lights in the garage were dim, bathing the space in an eerie orange glow. Dinah tapped out a code on the miniature computer at her wrist, and her suit released a small electromagnetic pulse that lowered the LED lights further. Then she spotted the crime scene, cordoned off by police tape circling a sleek BMW, it's driver's side door open.

Lieutenant Essen was talking to a middle-aged Latina woman wearing a cheap brown suit and a detective's badge, both of them frowning around at the dimming lights as Dinah appeared behind them.

"Shit," the detective hissed, startled when she saw Dinah standing there, prompting Essen to spin around.

Essen was about fifty, a few years younger than her boyfriend, Jim Gordon. Her eyes were warm and unexpectedly kind, her light brown skin smooth and youthful, though she was usually sporting bags under her eyes from late nights on the job.

"This is Detective Renee Montoya," Essen said, gesturing to the Latina woman, who was eyeing Dinah uncertainly. "Detective Montoya just transferred here from Bludhaven," Essen explained.

"Good to meet you," Montoya nodded grimly. "I hear you're the lady to talk to if you wanna get shit done in this city."

Dinah tapped the side of her helmet, the night vision goggles retracting as she examined the crime scene.

"What happened?" she hissed, disguising her voice the way Bruce had taught her.

"This is Janice Porter's car," Essen explained, squatting down beside the open door and pulling a pen from her blazer to point at an evidence tag on the floor. "And that's her blood."

Dinah pressed her lips together as paranoia prickled at the back of her neck. Janice Porter used to work for Harley. But, Dinah reminded herself, nearly everyone in Gotham worked for Harley at some point. Not _everything_ was about Harley.

"Her gym bag and purse are still in the car," Essen continued, rising to her feet. "And the car was found with the driver's door open. We think Porter was dragged out," she pointed to the blood again. "Fell here, possibly already unconscious, and was then carried or dragged to another vehicle."

"When was she last seen?" Dinah asked, her voice low.

"About 8.30 PM, according to the folks in the gym," Montoya jumped in.

Dinah looked around the parking garage, spotting a handful of CCTV cameras perched in corners. "Have you seen the footage from these cameras?"

"Yep," Montoya drawled. "Someone hacked them. The timestamp is correct until about 7.30 PM. Then they switch to a completely different day, playing old footage for about two hours before they flip back to the present. So we got no idea what went down here during those two hours."

"Like the cameras at the Ritz on Christmas Day?" Dinah asked, looking at Essen.

Essen's eyes widened. "Yes," she nodded. "Exactly like that."

"Christmas Day?" Montoya frowned.

"The Joker and Harley Quinn attacked the Ritz," Essen explained. "All the CCTV cameras were taken out for about six hours, showing old footage, just like this. We think they had some kind of hacker working for them. But they haven't been seen in over six months."

"That doesn't mean they won't come back," Dinah pointed out, her eyes drawn to Janice Porter's blood on the concrete. She envisioned the DA being dragged out of her car and kidnapped by Harley's thugs. But why? She looked at Essen again. "Why did you ask me to come here?"

"It was my idea," Montoya admitted gruffly. "DAs mysteriously disappearing? No suspects, no mob, no motive?" She shot Dinah a loaded look. "It all smells pretty fishy, doesn't it? Like maybe it needs a special touch?"

Dinah took a deep breath as she looked around the crime scene again. "Was Porter investigating anyone who might be capable of this?" she asked.

"We spoke to City Hall a few hours ago," Montoya said, pulling a Juul from her blazer and taking a drag off of it. "She was looking into all the big corporations based here in Gotham, trying to root out corruption, according to her colleagues."

"Just doing a clean sweep by all appearances," Essen agreed. "I can't imagine any of them being capable of kidnapping or killing the DA."

"People can surprise you with what they're capable of," Dinah observed grimly.

"I agree," Montoya announced, exhaling a plume of water vapor. "And we shouldn't forget what happened to Gotham's last DA."

"You really think this could be the Joker?" Essen asked dubiously. "This feels way too quiet for him."

"This is always how it starts," Dinah said darkly. "Something that doesn't make sense until it does."

"And by that point, you gotta call in the National Guard," Montoya chuckled darkly. "At least no one can say being a cop in Gotham is boring."

* * *

The sun was getting low in the sky when Harley woke up on Samantha's bed, face down on top of the covers, still fully dressed from the night—and morning—before, her cheek sticky with drool. She opened one eye and licked her lips, her mouth as dry as a desert, and her skin slick with boozy-sweat.

She grunted as she forced herself to roll onto her back, deciding she would never take Blue Orchid again. Not because of how she was feeling. As far as she could tell, this was a standard hangover which, by her count, was deserved after whiskey with Bullock, martinis with Reeves, and many, _many_ glasses of gin straight up at the Iceberg Lounge. It seemed BO was even more of a miracle drug if there was no comedown. But there had been a distinct feeling of not being _herself_ when she was high on it that Harley was not fond of with hindsight.

She sat up and kicked off her heels, then unzipped the back of her dress before she pulled the oversized pearls off her aching earlobes. With a great deal of effort, she dragged herself into the kitchen in her underwear and drank water straight from the tap, then yanked another one of Samantha's frozen batch cooked meals out of the freezer. Sweet potato and chickpea curry this time. Harley shoved it in the microwave and stabbed at the defrost button, then leaned against the counter, glowering at the little container rotating around as she recounted the night before.

Dancing for hours on end, drunk and high and giddy and surrounded by a sea of people wearing imaginary warpaint. The club shut around six in the morning, and the DJ closed out his set of 80s pop classics with _'I've Had the Time of My Life_ ' from Dirty Dancing. Harley remembered Lucy's 'favorite' bartender Ed insisting he could lift her over his head, and Harley had eagerly obliged, jumping into his arms just like in the movie. He'd held her up over her head and spun her around, _much_ stronger than he looked, while Harley posed like a gleeful idiot.

There was more she remembered too. She remembered Lucy dropping hints about her mysterious 'boss' and benefactor. She remembered seeing Alberto Falcone selling a massive quantity of BO to Fats Gambol. She remembered a man appearing in the VIP area, staring at her in the sea of people, and smiling as Alberto muttered in his ear. The drugs had made her hallucinate, but this man stood out, the mirage of warpaint shaking around the edges as if the sheer force of his personality could cut through her fever dream.

_Damnit._

She grabbed her food out of the microwave and ate absentmindedly as she tried to coax a memory of the man's face out of the recesses of her brain. But the memory was tainted, forever spliced with her hallucination.

Her burner beeped with a text message, and Harley's eyebrows rose when she saw it was from an unknown number.

_Drink later? - Sly._

* * *

Sly wanted to meet at a dive bar in Midtown, suggesting it was unsafe to meet at any of his usual haunts. Harley grabbed a silk blouse and a pair of tailored navy trousers from Samantha's closet so she would be invisible in the city's financial district. After stepping into some flat loafers, she chucked the contents of her clutch into a shoulder bag and headed for the metro.

Harley wasn't sure what to expect from a dive bar in one of the most expensive parts of town, but when she strolled in, she quickly realized it was a tourist trap. It was a long, narrow bar, claiming to have been open since 1932. Most of the bar stools were occupied by businessmen and women talking with their heads close together, but there were a few delighted-looking people from out of town in the mix too. The walls were covered in photographs from decades past, musicians and actors and boxers and baseball stars from the days when Midtown had at least a vague air of culture.

Harley spotted Sly at the end of the bar, wearing his usual leather trench coat despite the heatwave outside, and sulking over a bottle of Budweiser.

She climbed onto the stool beside him and ordered a beer for the sake of blending in, then looked at him expectantly.

Sly seemed to be struggling to form a sentence, very out of character for him.

"How ya been, doc?" he settled on at last.

"Oh, fine," Harley replied, keeping her voice low as she narrowed her eyes. "Mostly wondering why it took you three weeks to get back to me."

"I got a new number," he said shortly, draining the rest of his beer and waving the bartender down for another one while Harley stared at him.

"Listen," Sly leaned closer so they wouldn't be heard. "I started hearing whispers the last couple days that you were back. So as soon as I found your number, I got in touch."

"What kind of whispers," Harley squinted at him.

"Just that you're back, wanting to know what it means, wondering where you went, shit like that," he said, peeling the label off his bottle of beer, looking uncomfortable.

"And what kind of work are you doing these days, Sly?" Harley asked coldly.

"Same shit, different boss," he muttered, meeting Harley's eye, and she could tell he was trying to convey his loyalty.

"What boss?" she pressed.

"I got no idea," he shook his head. "I get envelopes with instructions in a PO box, then I get cash in the PO box once the job is done." He shook his head again, making a face. "No wise guys, no back alleys, no phones, no nothing. Clean and simple and quiet."

Harley didn't say anything; she just waited for him to continue.

"Listen," Sly leaned in close, _really_ close like he was _really_ nervous about being overheard. "After you left, things went to hell, alright? I'm sure ya heard about the Russians self-imploding and Alexandra Kosov taking over the Eastside, huh?"

"Yes," Harley confirmed as Sly looked over both shoulders before continuing with his story.

"So there's like a month of this after Christmas. I got no employer with all this shit going on, all I got on the table is jobs from that socialist Kosov bitch since she runs most of the muscle in town these days," he complained. "I gotta kid to take care of, ya know? Then I get an offer for a job, something a little more top tier if ya know what I mean, but they say I gotta go in for a chat with the boss's people first. Fair enough, I think. We meet at a warehouse out Oldtown, and I realize too late something ain't right. I mean, I'm used to tense fuckin' situations, doc, you better believe it, workin' for the Joker toughens you up."

Harley stared at Sly as he spoke, seeing how nervous he was. Seeing he was telling the truth, and that he'd been keeping this inside for months.

"They put me in a room with a guy in a suit, wearing a black mask that covers his whole head which, let's face it, ain't so strange in Gotham these days. He says he wants to know about the Joker and Harley Quinn."

Harley's eyebrows rose in surprise. That wasn't what she had been expecting at all.

"I says I don't know nothin', and the last thing I heard was you were starting shit with Alexandra Kosov on Christmas Day, but I don't know nothin' after that," he shifted awkwardly on his stool and took a swig of beer while Harley watched silently. "He says, you gotta kid dontcha, Sly. Billy, Right? wouldn't it be fuckin' sad if something happens to Billy..."

Harley's eyes widened indignantly—no one _else_ was allowed to threaten Sly's kid.

"So what am I supposed to do, he's threatening my fuckin' kid. I says, yeah, I did jobs for the Joker, but I ain't got any idea where he is. He says what kinda jobs, I says, whatever you want, I don't ask questions when the Joker or Harley Quinn want me to do a job. Then he asks me about you two, about your uh... _relationship_."

Harley grabbed her beer and took a few gulps while Sly kept talking.

"I says whaddya mean, they're together, goin' out, whatever. He wants to know more. He wants the soppy details. He wants to know if the boss _loves_ you. I says you two don't exactly talk about your personal lives with me. I says you two got somethin' special, anyone could see it. He wants to know if Harley Quinn's brainwashed like that Mad Love article..."

"Shit," Harley huffed, gulping down more watery beer as a feeling of foreboding settled in her gut.

"And I'm feelin' a little indignant on your behalf, doc, so I says, fuck no, and I tell him..." Sly hesitated, and Harley knew he had said something he shouldn't have. "I said I saw ya a few times before that all went down. That you killed that wiseguy at the pier, and about killin' Cassamento's wife. I says you were obviously not some innocent little lady back then. He believes me, I think, cause then he asks me about the operation, ya know."

"The _operation?_ " Harley said quietly, her jaw twitching as she watched Sly run a hand over his oiled hair. "Sly... what did you say?"

"I says there ain't no fuckin' operation in the way he's thinkin', that you two just sorta do whatever the fuck you want and guys like me who like the money or crazy ones who don't know what they're doin', we all just fall in line. He says what about safe houses so... I tell him about Marty's place in Gotham Heights. I says you guys have other ones I don't know about, but Gotham Heights is where we meet ya sometimes, though its normally random places around the city."

Harley closed her eyes, thinking about the Joker and all those henchmen sitting in Marty's kitchen, snorting BO and getting shit faced when the safe house was no longer secure.

"Then, doc, then he asks me about how the Joker hacked all that shit about Crowne and Wayne and those fuckers. He wants to know how you guys get on GCN, he wants to know about anyone special you got workin' for you. Now I'm thinkin', thank fuck the Joker never tells me nothin', but he presses me hard, doc, so I say I know you gotta guy that's real technical, that the Joker's always talkin' to him. I say I don't know his name." He met Harley's eye, serious as death.

" _Lonnie_?" Harley hissed. "He asked you about fucking Lonnie?"

"Fuckin' Lonnie," Sly nodded, not looking away from her. "I swear though doc, I didn't say his fuckin' name, I didn't say _nothin'_. I just says there's a guy, I don't know him."

"What else did you tell him?" Harley demanded.

"I tells him about Bruno, about Marty, I figure that ain't so bad cause they're dead," Sly shrugged, glancing at Harley to see if this was okay, and she nodded once to confirm he'd done the right thing. "Then he wants to know..." Sly licked his lips quickly. "He wants to know... what it would take to get Harley Quinn to kill the Joker."

" _What_?" Harley snapped, and Sly threw his hands up like he was equally bewildered.

"I got no fuckin' idea, that's what I tell him. I say it's impossible to predict what you two will do in any given situation, and that's why you're so fuckin' dangerous. And then, ah, doc, then he asks me about Poison Ivy..."

Harley covered her mouth with her hand.

"And again, I ain't got no idea, do I? I stayed away from all that mind control shit. He believes me, I think, then he takes my phone and sends me on my way with a job and some cash to thank me for my fuckin' time."

"Jesus," Harley sighed, running through a list of names and faces, anyone who knew Pam's real name. She thought about Dinah, wherever she was. Could they get to Dinah? Did this extend beyond Gotham?

"Listen, doc," Sly looked around nervously again. "They didn't just shake me down, okay? They tried it with Dough Boy, but he musta not talked cause they whacked him."

"Dough Boy's dead?" Harley's eyes widened.

"He sure fuckin' is. And you better believe they got to some of the other guys. Big Tuna couldn't keep his mouth shut if he tried. The Lemon's a fuckin' asshole. Bambi wouldda cracked as soon as they threatened his mother. All the Grins people are dead. Ralphie, Ginger, Murphey, all of em' cause they knew Marty wouldn't want em' to talk. Anyone fuckin' loyal is dead."

"What about Sergey?" Harley pressed. "Is he alive?"

"Who knows, I wouldn't thought he'd flip but..." Sly sighed and shook his head.

Harley took a deep breath, thinking fast. Then she looked up at Sly. "You need to get your kid and get out of the city."

"Oh, you better fuckin' believe I sent my ex and my kid to her parents in Chicago after this shit started," Sly huffed bitterly.

"You need to leave too," Harley insisted, glancing up and down the bar at the stockbrokers and the tourists. Any of them could be someone else. "Leave tonight. I'm serious. Do you need money?" She started to reach for her bag.

"Alright, alright," Sly agreed, waving her off. "I got plenty of money, don't you worry. At least these assholes pay well, whoever they are."

"Fuck," Harly sighed, running a hand over her hair.

She couldn't tell if she knew more or less after this conversation, but she certainly had more questions. The Blue Orchid. The Iceberg Lounge's renovation. This mysterious boss shaking down anyone close to them, asking for very _specific_ details. Details about their relationship, details about Lonnie and Pam. Then there were the bodies in the Narrows—a conspiracy, Bullock had said.

But what could Harley do? The Joker was surrounded by traitors, though the idea that their moronic henchmen would be able to betray him and get away with it was too ludicrous to entertain. Did that mean he already knew? He had to.

Harley felt like her fingertips were tingling, the need to do something productive making her heart hammer in her throat. There was only one tangible place she could think to start. Bullock's case.

Harley turned to Sly, fixing him with a steely look. "What do you know about dissolving bodies in acid?"

"Eh?" He looked bewildered. "Shit, you mean like the Toad?"

" _Who_?"

"The Toad, real fuckin' creepy guy Maroni's boys used to use when they wanted someone disappeared forever," Sly explained. "Body disposal of the highest caliber. Very expensive compared to a shallow grave or a cinder block necklace. I only met him once when I had a guy Maroni never wanted found."

"Where can I find him?" Harley demanded, already getting to her feet.

"Uh," Sly scratched his neck, trying to remember. "Downtown near the harbor, it was an old office block at the shipyard, the one that closed down during the depression... But this was three or four years ago, doc..."

"Thanks," Harley said shortly, shouldering her bag and preparing to leave.

"Doc, hang on," Sly called after her.

Harley turned around to see he was offering her a pistol under the bar. She grabbed it and shoved it in her handbag.

"Get out of town. Tonight," she instructed again, waiting for Sly to nod in agreement before she turned and hurried out of the bar.

Outside, the sky was gray, the clouds thick with a thunderstorm. Harley stopped to look over her shoulder at the patrons sitting at the bar, feeling paranoid that someone was watching her. The bartender offered her a smile and wave, which she ignored, spinning on her heel and striding down the street toward the metro.

* * *

It took twenty minutes to walk from the metro station to the old shipyard, during which time it started to rain, the clouds above rumbling unhappily. By the time Harley had scaled the chain-link fence circling the abandoned office block, the heavens had opened in a torrential downpour that left her soaking wet. With her clothes sticking to her body and her hair sticking to her face, Harley trudged through the small gravel parking lot toward a small, abandoned office building.

She found a side door and pulled Sly's gun out of her bag before she staggered into the stale-smelling building. It was almost pitch black inside, so Harley grabbed Pam's phone and turned on its flashlight function, then edged carefully through the building's ground floor, passing old cubicles and meeting rooms, the single beam of light from the phone bouncing on long-abandoned desks and office chairs.

Then, faintly, she could hear opera music. She scraped her wet hair off her face with the back of her arm, bracing herself as she weaved through the cubicles. The music led her to a supply closet at the back of the office block, its door propped open, a dim orange light emanating from below.

Harley tucked Pam's phone away so she could use both hands on the gun—she was a god awful shot, so being quiet enough to get close was essential. She peered into the closet, finding a narrow flight of stairs leading down into a basement, the opera squalling as someone shuffled around, tending to their work. Harley kicked off her sodden shoes and laid her bag on the ground, then crept down the stone steps.

It smelled awful. Like burnt hair and old blood. Most of the small space was taken up with plastic tubs full of steaming liquid, a lifeless hand covered in acid burns flopping over the lip of one as it bubbled and popped.

Harley could only assume the man tending to the acid baths was the Toad; short, obese, and wearing scrubs beneath a leather apron. As she crept up behind him, she spotted a small radio blaring opera next to the chemistry set, and Harley turned the volume down as she pressed the barrel of her gun against the back of the Toad's reddened neck.

"Uh oh," he said, sounding amused, not nervous.

"Turn around," Harley said calmly, and once he did, she could see why people called him the Toad. His face was flat and his mouth wide and flabby, with weak lips and a fantastic set of jowls, his eyes pink and milky.

"What can I do for you, madame," the Toad asked, his voice low and warbly.

"I'm here for information," Harley said, keeping her gun trained on his face.

"I do not give out my clients details," the Toad replied, proudly.

"I'm not here for your clients," Harley snapped. "I'm thinking about starting up a business of my own," she improvised, eyeing the hand slipping into the tub of acid. "Where can I get a starter kit?"

"Hydrofluoric acid, you mean?" The Toad lifted an amused eyebrow. "For an amateur, that is a good place to start."

"I assume it's not something you can buy off the internet?" Harley deadpanned.

"You are correct, madam," he nodded, his jowls quivering. "It is something you can purchase from certain _specialist_ retailers."

"And do we have any _specialist_ retailers here in Gotham?" Harley asked coldly. When the Toad didn't reply, she pressed the barrel of her gun against his forehead, letting it make her point for her.

The Toad chuckled, his eyes rolling up to look at the gun. "Very well. Are you familiar with Texas Joe's Body Shop?"

"Oh, yes," Harley growled. "Texas Joe sells hydrofluoric acid?"

"Correct," the Toad nodded, looking pleased with himself. "He is—"

Harley shot him before he could finish the thought, a jet of blood shooting out of the back of his skull in the wake of the bullet, and he fell to the ground with a meaty thump.

That was more than enough, and Harley was ready to get the fuck out of that stinky little basement. She raced up the stone steps and stomped back out into the rain.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, after hotwiring the Toad's powder blue VW bug, Harley screeched to a stop outside Texas Joe's Body Shop under the east side of the Midtown Bridge. It was still raining hard, loud claps of thunder joined by bursts of lightning as she stomped through the rain into the garage.

Texas Joe immediately knew he was in trouble, pleading with Harley as she backed him up against the wall and got in his face.

"I don't know nothin' I swear!" he protested.

"You don't know nothin' about _what_?" Harley snapped.

"About anything!" Texas Joe wailed, his dirty white beard quivering, his rosy cheeks growing darker.

"But you don't seem surprised to see me," Harley spat, cocking her head to the side as she pressed Sly's gun to his jowls, forcing his head back. "Why is that, Joe? Have you heard _whispers_ too?"

"Please, doc, _please_ ," he begged pathetically, making Harley roll her eyes. God, he could do with spending some time in Guadalajara with the Penitente Cartel.

But Texas Joe was now suitably scared, which meant he wouldn't lie to her.

Harley took a step back, her expression glacial. "Have you sold any hydrofluoric acid lately?"

"Huh?" Joe looked bewildered as he scrambled to reply. "Uh... yeah, actually, yeah."

He seemed to puff up a little bit, hopeful that if he could be helpful, he wouldn't be killed or maimed.

"Who's buying it?" Harley raised an eyebrow.

"I dunno," he shrugged helplessly. "They leave the money for me, and I have it delivered."

Harley remembered what Sly had said—no wiseguys, no phones, no back alleys, just clean and simple. She ground her teeth.

"Give me the address," she demanded.

* * *

The address was in the Narrows, and Harley was shocked to learn it was a warehouse overlooking the same docks where the bodies first started showing up. It was _outrageously_ brazen.

The storm was still in full force when Harley climbed out of the VW Bug, rain pounding into the street as lightning cracked overhead. Her blouse had become see-through, plastered to her like a second skin while Samantha's trousers grew heavy and waterlogged, dragging her down. Her _bones_ felt wet.

Harley darted across the street to the docks' entrance and peered up at the massive warehouse beside it. She took note that the windows on the top floor on the left side were open, and after some searching, she found a side door and slipped inside. She took a moment to wring her hair out before she hunted down the stairwell and jogged to the top, anticipation starting to sweep through her. Confronting minions like the Toad or Texas Joe was hardly worth getting excited over, but she had no idea what awaited her at the top of these stairs. Hopefully, something to give her some _answers._

At the top of the stairwell, she found a sliding steel door with a keypad locking mechanism. But the door stood ajar, not locked. There was a clap of thunder outside, cutting through the constant pounding of rain as Harley rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath, preparing herself. Then she threw the sliding door open, sending it crashing into the wall with a _CLANG!_ that echoed around her, and Harley's eyes widened incredulously.

It was immediately apparent that there was much, _much_ more she didn't understand as her eyes jumped around the room, taking in the operation set up there. But all of that was relegated to the back of her mind for later inspection.

Casually draped across an old chesterfield sofa in the middle of the room was the Joker, and sitting beside him in a matching armchair was Dr Jonathan Crane.

Harley's eyes darted between them, her jaw working until she found her voice again.

"What the fuck is this!" she demanded.

* * *

**A/N: BAH-BAH-BAHHHHHHH.**

**I LOVE how half of you guessed the Joker was behind the bodies, and the other half guessed Crane. I sense some of you are Breaking Bad fans and caught the 'Easter egg' with Frost buying the container.**

**But who saw our first reluctant bad guy team-up coming down the pipeline?! Any of you lurkers? Oh, that's right. There is more than one team-up on the way!**

**Fact Check: You can actually buy Hydrofluoric acid off the internet, but: storytelling.**

**Admin note: "BO" is pronounced "B.O."... like body odor… my terrible little joke.  
**

**Next: Dr Jonathan Crane recounts his reluctant partnership (read: bromance) with the Joker.**

**Please comment and review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Previously: the Joker has been working on something behind Harley's back with a recently escaped Jonathan Crane._ **

_Theme: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - 'Loverman' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/P51IVqf28Hs)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/6sOCmuWkp0anAqgfLqzNjH?si=UrzuAS_nS0WCV81XrWJbdQ))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime.

5.

* * *

_Three weeks earlier._

One year, eleven months, and three-hundred sixty-four days. That was how long Dr Jonathan Crane had been locked up in his own asylum. He would always consider Arkham _his_ , even if that incompetent witch Joan Leland was currently running it. He'd worked with Leland when she was head of the Clinical Psychology department at Gotham University, and mentor to a promising young PhD candidate named Harleen Quinzel.

Crane first met Harleen when he was forced to lecture a class of undergrad psych majors in the final year of his PhD. She'd stood out to him then, always sitting in the front row, listening intently like she was hanging on his every word. Then, some years later, when he was appointed director of Arkham, she'd reached out to him for notes on her thesis. They met a handful of times, and Crane always came away reluctantly impressed by the depth of her understanding of the human mind. Leland, on the other hand, she just wanted to help catch and rehabilitate bad guys.

Now Harleen was a wanted terrorist and Leland was Crane's therapist.

Though he had once been considered brilliant and celebrated, he now spent his days lying on a cot staring at the ceiling, and avoiding the social interaction Leland prescribed to patients. For a criminology expert, she utterly lacked understanding of the nature of criminals. After only a month of these socializing sessions, Oswald Cobblepot persuaded half of the inmates to make him their leader. There had been three breakout attempts by Cobblepot and his gang. One a near miss. The man was both a manic narcissist and a fool.

_Insufferable._

Being subjected to socialization was almost worse than the talk therapy Leland forced upon him. In their sessions, she asked about his childhood, about the Scarecrow archetype, about his desires and impulses. Unimaginative and mundane questions Crane either refused to answer or turned back on her, stubbornly talking her in circles until the clock ran out.

Leland never asked about his fear toxin or R'as al Ghul. She never engaged him or showed any real interest in him. Not like Harleen when she worked at Arkham. He didn't like many people, but at one time, he'd liked Harleen's naked ambition and clever mind, and how she reminded him of himself.

For those first few months, when she came to see him two or three times a week, Arkham was almost bearable. Then the Joker was admitted, and she forgot about Crane completely, too distracted by the clown to visit, let alone engage in a robust discussion of the human psyche. She was an expert on psychopaths, and in the end, she ran off with one, leaving Crane to rot behind bars. Forgetting about him.

It was the eve of his two year anniversary at Arkham when he was given an offer he couldn't refuse. He was glowering resentfully at the stone ceiling above him when an orderly unlocked his cell and gestured for him to come out into the hallway. Cautiously, Crane rose from his cot and padded over to the orderly, who was eyeing him warily—like he wasn't _entirely_ convinced about something.

He grabbed Crane's arm and hurried him down the hallway, taking a route that was obviously planned and strategic.

Miraculously, due to someone's outrageously bold foresight, Crane was rushed out of the asylum through the front door and into the staff parking lot, right into an old Toyota waiting there. It was that fast and with that little fanfare. The car took off with Crane, flat on his back in the dark trunk, trying to remain calm and collected as the concept of freedom became a reality.

Twenty or thirty minutes later, the car slowly rolled to a stop and a series of doors opened and shut. Crane closed his eyes, preparing himself as he listened to muffled voices outside. Then someone popped the trunk, and the bright glare of a street light hit Crane full in the face. He blinked hard, realizing the orderly was smirking down at him. He'd pulled a leather jacket on over his white Arkham scrubs, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a cigarette in hand.

"C'mon out, moneybags," he grinned.

Narrowing his pale eyes, Crane slowly sat up and awkwardly clambered out of the trunk, his bare feet landing on the cold asphalt. He looked around quickly, his nostrils flaring when he realized they were in the middle of the well-lit parking lot of the Mega Mart in the University District. There were only a handful of cars dotted around the massive lot and no customers, but Crane still felt absurd standing there barefoot in his bright orange jumpsuit.

It was unabashedly brazen, going to such a public place after escaping an insane asylum.

Then he saw who had arranged his escape, and his teeth ground together noisily, a lump of outrage forming in his throat.

An old, wood-paneled station wagon was parked alongside the Toyota, and leaning casually against it was the Joker, smoking a cigarette as he watched the orderly and the driver count their money. His face wasn't painted, and his hair wasn't green, and he wore a cheap black suit and tie instead of his usual outlandish purple. But his scars were obvious under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, and though Crane had never met him in person before, there was something about the queer tilt of his head and the odd hunch of his shoulders that made him unmistakable.

The Joker swung around to face Crane as if he'd only just realized he was standing there. He arched one eyebrow as he looked Crane over, from his floppy black hair to his bare feet, and hummed dubiously like he wasn't convinced of something, making Crane's mouth curl into an ugly scowl.

Then the Joker reached into his jacket and withdrew a pistol already fitted with a suppressor, and fired two shots into the driver. The driver fell back against the Toyota and slid to the ground while the orderly froze, but before he could act, there were two more suppressed _zips!_ and he was dead on his back too. Crane watched it all through narrowed eyes, his breath coming fast through his nose as he tried to anticipate what would happen next. But it was impossible. This was the Joker.

Sniffing resolutely, the Joker tucked the gun back inside his suit jacket and reached into the station wagon's open back window, grabbing a pair of dirty Reebocks off the backseat. In only a few swaying steps, he was looming over Crane, a good six or seven inches taller at least.

Crane glared up at him, infuriated that he was in debt to the Joker of all people. The clown seemed to realize it, shooting him a nasty smile as he shoved the Reeboks into Crane's arms, hard enough to make him flinch and rock back on his heels.

"What do you want?" Crane spat.

"I'm workin' on a little uh... _project,"_ the Joker drawled, backing up to grab the duffel bag of money off the orderly. "I'm thinking you'd be good to _consult_ on it."

"Consult?" Crane demanded, holding the Reeboks close to his chest, despising the Joker for being the one to offer him _shoes._ "Why would I agree to help you?"

The Joker grabbed the second bag of money off the driver's body and circled to the back of the station wagon, opening the trunk and throwing it in before he turned to face Crane.

"Well, to _start_ with, if you say _no_ I may as well kill ya," he shrugged helplessly. "Or, _worse..._ I could _leave_ you here and give the pigs a heads up." He pulled the gun out from under his jacket and shot out one of Toyota's tires, removing a potential escape vehicle from the equation. He turned back to Crane, his eyebrows raised. " _Or..._ you could get in the car and see what all this _fuss_ is about."

He shrugged again as if he wasn't bothered about any of these outcomes.

Crane ground his teeth, knowing he had no choice in the matter. He dropped the Reeboks on the ground, then bent down to struggle into them, his balance wavering.

 _"Swell,"_ the Joker sneered. He ducked down beside the driver and yanked him away from the car, then looked up at Crane expectedly. "Uh...a little _help_?"

Crane's eyes darted around the parking lot, his jaw aching from clenching it. He shook his head to clear it, telling himself he was _not_ conceding defeat as he joined the Joker beside the body and helped swing the dead men into the back of the station wagon.

Then, silently, both of them radiating contempt for one another, they climbed into the station wagon. Crane pulled on his seatbelt while the Joker simply turned the key in the ignition and took off, his expression unreadable. After a few minutes, Crane realized they were heading south again, and when they pulled back onto the Narrows bridge, he turned to the Joker, seething.

"We're going back to the Narrows?" he scowled, to which the Joker just rolled his eyes.

"What kinda _idiot_ hangs out around the corner from the place he just escaped, huh?"

"You really are insane," Crane muttered, settling back in his seat and glowering out the window.

They passed right by Arkham, the red and blue lights of multiple police cruisers flashing out front.

The Joker just snorted, looking amused.

* * *

They drove to the southernmost part of the island where there used to be a vibrant fishing community a century earlier. Now only the remnants remained; creaky old docks made of rotting wood and ghostly fishing boats long-abandoned, and dilapidated warehouses that hadn't been used in decades.

Operating in silence, Crane helped the Joker dump the bodies, then reluctantly followed him into one of the warehouses. Inside, a red floodlight illuminated a short hallway well enough for them to find the stairwell. At the top of the stairs was a sliding steel door, a keypad beside it. The Joker typed in a code which was unbelievably - 1, 2, 3, 4 - then slid the steel door aside to reveal a barren loft. The only furniture was an old chesterfield sofa in dark green leather with a matching armchair, and between them a plank of wood balanced on four cinder blocks acting as a coffee table. On top of that makeshift table was a bag of violet-colored powder and a mirror.

The Joker collapsed into the armchair and bent forward to shake some of the powder on the mirror while Crane watched uneasily. Then behind the armchair, he spotted a barrel drum with _MCU PROPERTY_ spray-painted in stencil on the side, and his pulse leaped.

The last of the fear toxin. The only fear toxin Crane would ever be able to make without a contact to send him the blue poppies.

He turned to the Joker, not caring that his voice came out strained. "Is that..."

" _Yuuup_ ," the Joker drawled, using a hotel room key to rack up a line of the purple powder.

Feeling bolder but knowing he would have to play along, Crane lowered himself onto the couch, watching the Joker closely.

"What is that?" he asked warily, pointing to the powder.

" _That_ is Blue Orchard or _BO_ as the kids are callin' it," the Joker explained, shooting Crane a knowing look. "Since the _Bat-_ man got rid of all the fun stuff, people had to uh… _improvise_."

"And what does this have to do with me?" Crane demanded impatiently.

"Why dontcha try it and find out," the Joker suggested, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth as he reached into his pocket and threw a dollar bill on the table beside the mirror.

Crane almost laughed.

"You must be joking," he shot back flatly.

"Ohhh, trust me, Jonny," the Joker hitched forward, his elbows landing on his knees as he stared at Crane intently. "You're gonna wanna know what this shit is first hand," he advised, his voice low.

For once, he sounded serious, forcing Crane to consider the unspoken implications if he refused. One of which was if he didn't take the drugs, he wouldn't get his fear toxin back. Equally plausible, the Joker would kill him or follow through on his threat to send him back to Arkham.

The Joker lit a cigarette with a silver-plated zippo while Crane wrestled with his very limited options, feeling sick over the notion of being bullied into taking _drugs_. But eventually, he had to concede to himself that this was the only option available to him. He picked up the dollar bill beside the mirror and rolled it into a tube, then bent forward to sniff up the line of purple powder.

An intense wave of euphoria crashed over him, making his breath catch and his body tense. Crane fell back against the stiff couch cushions, blind and mute and stupid, his brain struggling to understand what was happening to him as he fought for breath. Then the wave abruptly stopped, leaving his fingertips tingling and his heart pounding in his neck, and for the first time in his life, Jonathan Crane wasn't afraid. Not of the Joker, not of the police, not of the Batman, not of anything.

He blinked hard as something in the depths of his mind purred happily, something primal and hidden blossoming to life, making him feel _everything_.

Then he saw it. The dark corners of the room started to shift and mutate, morphing into bats that split into multiple creatures. They fluttered like butterflies around the room, whirling and dancing gracefully. Crane knew they weren't real, but he didn't care. They were beautiful and comforting, the polar opposite to stinging, endless fear he was so acutely familiar with.

"There it is," the Joker growled.

Crane's head lolled to the side, his heart pounding against his breastbone as he watched the Joker exhale a vertical plume of smoke. The wisps of smoke braided together into a long rope that slithered down like a deflated balloon, landing on the Joker's shoulder and wrapping around his neck in a noose. Crane watched, mesmerized as the rope grew longer, knitting together until it transformed into a burlap sack that slowly closed around the Joker's face, hiding all but his eyes.

When he turned to look at Crane, the eyes seemed to glow like a tiger's beneath the mask's rough canvas, gleaming orange instead of the black.

" _Scarecrow_ ," Crane whispered, feeling overcome.

* * *

When Crane woke up, the sun was shining outside. He was curled up on the couch, the cracked leather pressed against his cheek. His eyes snapped open as he remembered what he'd experienced the night before, his mind racing to find an explanation.

The purple powder—Blue Orchid— it was his fear toxin.

But at the same time, it _wasn't_. Its effect on the brain was diametrically opposed to his original compound. Instead of anxiety, there was comfort; instead of nightmarish hallucinations, there were beautiful dreams; instead of feeling trapped by fear, he felt free from it.

He sat up quickly, pushing a sweaty flop of hair off his forehead and breathing deeply to calm himself.

"Remind you of something... _Jonny?"_ the Joker drawled.

Crane spun around to find the Joker draped across the armchair like a big lazy cat.

"How..." Crane faltered, struggling to articulate himself.

"I was hopin' _you_ could tell me," the Joker swung his legs off the arm of the chair, his hand fluttering through the air. "This whole _city_ is on that shit."

Crane ran his hands up his legs, the rough canvas of the Arkham jumpsuit scraping his palms.

"The blue poppy," he said. "It's what causes the hallucinations and activates the brain's fear receptors."

"Mmmhmm," the Joker agreed mildly, raking a hand through his greasy hair. "I hear the only guy who could get his hands on it was called uh... _Ra's."_

"Ra's al Ghul is dead," Crane said bitterly, annoyed that Harleen would tell the Joker his _secrets_.

"Which begs the _question_ ," the Joker drawled, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Who got their sticky _fingers_ on those poppies, and how're they gettin' them into the city."

"How did you know it was similar to my compound?" Crane narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, your _fear gas_?" the Joker smirked lazily. "Tried it out when I stole it from the pigs," he shrugged dismissively. "It's uh… _cute_."

"Why do you care who's making this drug?" Crane fumed, feeling patronized. "What does _any_ of this have to do with you?"

The Joker sniffed and looked out the window, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.

"There's a _new_ boss in town, and they're making a mint off this," he eventually said, rolling his eyes back to Crane. "But a certain _caped_ friend of ours hasn't caught wind of them yet. I'd like to be thoroughly _informed_ when he does."

Crane ran a hand over his mouth. "You want my help finding out who's making this before the Batman does?"

"I figure it's a uh, win-win for both of us," the Joker pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket and popped one between his lips.

"And how do you propose we go about doing that," Crane demanded.

" _You_ figure out what's in this shit," the Joker waved at the bag of purple powder, smoke spiraling from the glowing end of his cigarette. "And _I'll_ do some more sniffing around to see who's been running things." He cocked one eyebrow at Crane. "So... whaddya say?"

Crane already knew he would say yes. He needed the Joker's help as much as it pained him to admit it. He ground his teeth, consoling himself with the knowledge that he only needed the Joker's help _for now_. Once he was back on his feet, this temporary alliance would be over.

"I have one condition," Crane announced, his pale eyes narrowing. "Harleen is not involved in this. At all."

The Joker snorted, looking amused. "Uh... _what?"_

"Harleen will have no part in this," Crane said again, well aware that he wasn't in a position to negotiate, and the sour look on the Joker's face told him that he was treading on thin ice.

He rolled his eyes out to the side, prodding the scars inside his cheek with his tongue as he thought it over. Then he sighed melodramatically and nodded, rolling his eyes like he thought it was a ridiculous request.

Finally. A win. Crane's mouth curled into a small, humorless smirk.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he said smugly. "If she learns anything about this, she won't be able to stop herself from getting involved. She is relentless once she gets an idea in her head."

The Joker hummed dubiously, his tongue making a full circuit of his lips as he weighed up his girlfriend's stubborn nature with the fact that he would have to lie to her to make this partnership work. Then he stretched his arms over his head, a lascivious grin growing on his butchered face.

"That ain't the only thing she's relentless about, Jonny," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Healthy appetite, if ya know what I mean."

"Oh, for God's sake," Crane sneered.

* * *

The Joker didn't seem in the mood for more discussion once they'd hammered out the basics of their arrangement. Instead, he handed over an old Nokia phone, instructing Crane to make a list of what he needed to get started, then turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Crane demanded.

"Oh uh... I got a relentless psychologist to satisfy," the Joker smirked. He started to turn away again but hung back at the last moment, shaking a finger at Crane. "Oh uh, ya _might_ not wanna leave this place," he advised slyly. "The pigs are trynna hunt you _down_ , Jonny. You better believe the Bat's looking for you too. And he's not gonna stop till he finds ya."

Then he flashed a sickly grin and whirled around, loping out of the loft like a fleeing tornado.

Crane lowered himself onto the couch, his guts twisting and bile rising in his throat, an old affliction that hadn't bothered him in years.

There was a bathroom across from the sofa, or something like a bathroom, with a toilet missing its seat and a shower head on the wall, but no door. Crane bolted off the couch, reaching the toilet in time to vomit up the lentil slop he'd been fed at Arkham the night before, followed by sticky green bile. After five minutes of dry heaving, it finally stopped, and he collapsed on the cracked tiled floor, panting and wiping sweat from his clammy forehead.

Work. He needed to focus on work.

Crane dragged himself back to the couch, breathing deeply to calm his racing pulse, and started typing out a list of materials on the phone.

There were only two numbers stored. 'J' and 'K'. Crane rolled his eyes at the childish joke and sent the list to 'J'.

He slept restlessly for a while after that, exhausted and dehydrated and starving. Eventually, the sun set and he plucked up the courage to have a shower, first finding a dusty tarp to hang where the bathroom door should have been. Then he shed the Arkham jumpsuit and dirty Reeboks and stood beneath a weak stream of freezing water, his bones aching.

The sliding steel door slammed open, and a chorus of feet and voices entered, forcing Crane to struggle back into the orange jumpsuit, miserable and wet, which was still better than being naked.

He pushed the tarp aside, discovering the Joker had returned with two henchmen. One was big and muscular like a bodybuilder, his bleached blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, his skin spray-tanned orange. The other was skinny and fair-haired, with anarchist tattoos on the backs of his hands and his neck. The orange one was setting up a lab table, a box of glassware on the floor beside his feet. The skinny one was sitting on the couch with a pair of laptops and a jumble of ethernet cables covering the makeshift table.

The Joker stood between them, his hands on his hips as he observed his minions working. He whirled around with a showman-like flourish of his arm when he felt Crane standing behind him.

"Oh, _there_ you are!" the Joker smirked, probably enjoying the miserable sneer on Crane's face. He hitched a thumb at each of his minions in turn. "That's Lonnie, and that's Frost," he announced, flopping into the armchair.

"What up, doc," Lonnie said drily, not looking away from the laptop in front of him.

Frost placed the box of glassware on the table he'd set up, then nodded silently at Crane as he slipped through the sliding door, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

Unsure what to do with himself, Crane hung back until Lonnie crowed triumphantly and turned the laptop around to show Crane the screen.

"Look familiar?" he asked smugly.

Crane's eyes widened as he examined the scanned document displayed on the screen. It was a page of his handwritten notes. Notes which had been confiscated by the GCPD and, he had assumed, destroyed. But they were right there in front of his eyes, part of his original formula.

Lonnie pulled the laptop away, smirking complacently as he started typing again.

"You have my notes?" Crane demanded, his nostrils flaring. "How?"

"The MCU has your notes, dude. I'm just stealing them," Lonnie narrowed his eyes as he typed.

Crane turned to the Joker, who was smoking lazily and thumbing around on a smartphone, apparently having lost interest for the moment.

Resentment began to prickle at the base of Crane's skull—resentment that the Joker found _all_ of all this so _easy_. Breaking him out of Arkham, retrieving his notes, getting his hands on the last of the original fear toxin. The only thing Crane had to hold over him was his expertise on the blue poppy.

Scowling, he strode over to the lab table, rifling through the box of glassware and setting up what he needed to begin reverse-engineering the Blue Orchid compound to find out what else was in it.

* * *

Crane spent the next three next three days getting to work, mostly on his own in blessed silence, but occasionally the Joker and Frost would drop by, usually with food, and ostensibly to check on him. On one occasion, Frost dropped off pizza on his own, and Crane worked up the courage to ask him for clothes and a razor. Frost nodded warily and returned later that day with what he'd requested, though the multi-pack of button-down shirts were two sizes too big, reminding Crane of the oversized hand-me-downs he'd worn as a child.

Clean-shaven, busy, and no longer wearing the disgusting Arkham jumpsuit, Crane began to understand how this new compound, Blue Orchid, had been created. It was something that could have only been developed by a highly skilled chemist or perhaps a psychologist with a broad knowledge of chemistry, just like Crane. But the lingering question wasn't so much who made it as how they got access to the rare blue poppy.

The Joker returned on the fourth night, looking tired and wearing a tee-shirt and black jeans with one knee ripped open, his greasy hair tied back with an elastic band. He flopped down on the sofa, yawning like he was about to settle in for a nap when Crane cleared his throat meaningfully, getting his attention.

"I need a test subject," Crane informed him hostilely.

The Joker's bottom lip jutted out as he hummed thoughtfully, intrigued. Then he jumped to his feet and inclined his head to the sliding steel door.

"Well _c'mon_ , then," he drawled, feigning impatience as he pushed the door open.

Crane hesitated, remembering the Joker's warning that the police and the Batman were hunting him.

"Aw, don't worry, Jonny," the Joker shot him a lazy smirk. "I'll keep ya safe."

Crane scowled, resentment pulsing through him again as the Joker breezed out of the loft, leaving Crane with little choice but to follow him.

They took the station wagon they'd used the night of the breakout, the Joker hunching over the wheel as he squinted down dark alleys.

"Where are we going?" Crane asked sourly.

"What kinda people do the cops not give a shit about?" the Joker narrowed his eyes as they passed another alley, this one with a fire glowing at the end. " _Junkies_ ," he answered himself, yanking the wheel to the side and parking with a screech.

"Subtle," Crane observed drily, leaning back as the Joker reached across him to pop the glove box and retrieve a canister of chloroform. "Do you _always_ carry chloroform around in your glove box?"

"You know how it is," the Joker shot back. "It coulda went either way with you."

Crane's eyes widened indignantly as the Joker smirked and unfolded his lanky body from the car.

They snuck down an alley toward the fire, where a group of about twelve were hovering. The Joker picked one off quickly, for no particular reason by Crane's calculations. By the time they got their victim back upstairs to the loft, Crane was panting and sweating from carrying the man, while the Joker just looked moody, flopping down on the couch and lighting a cigarette.

"I need more supplies, medical equipment," Crane announced, making the Joker grumble incoherently under his breath.

"Text Frost," he grunted dismissively. Then he tossed the remains of his cigarette away, folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and promptly passed out.

Crane considered killing him. It wouldn't be hard when he was unconscious and vulnerable. He preferred to hire others for any necessary killing, though he wasn't averse to doing it himself if the time called for it. All it would take was a broken beaker through the jugular, and the clown would be no more. But Crane soon gave up on that idea, knowing he still needed the Joker if he was going to continue his work. It was too dangerous to leave the warehouse with the media no doubt plastering his face across the front of newspapers in the wake of his escape. Someone might recognize him. Someone might call the police and have him sent back to Arkham, and Crane wasn't sure he could survive it again.

* * *

The rest of the week and much of the next played out in the same fashion, with Frost and the Joker bringing test subjects for Crane to work with, then dumping them at the docks once they died. Frost came and went as he pleased, dropping off food—normally pizza—or any supplies Crane requested, including an air mattress so he didn't have to sleep in the armchair.

The Joker was around with increasing frequency, often just to sleep on the couch as if he'd done nothing but be active between visits. He was supposed to be sniffing around his moronic henchmen for information, but thus far, that strategy had yielded very little information.

Crane noticed his smoking habit increased exponentially during this time, which would suggest some kind of external stress was weighing on the clown. It occurred to him this stress had something to do with Harleen, as did the possibility that the Joker was actively avoiding her. Perhaps so he didn't have to lie to her about where he'd been, a fascinating notion.

Then they hit a snag. Crane and Frost went down to the dock to dump a body when they discovered all twelve of their previous victims floating at the surface, their bloated white faces bobbing in the seawater.

"Ah, crap," Frost sighed, one of his rare exclamations.

Luckily, the Joker had a solution.

"Acid bath," he shrugged carelessly. He'd brought a bottle of bourbon with him this time, pouring it into a pair of plastic cups and shoving one into Crane's hands, despite his insisting he didn't drink.

"Acid bath?" Crane sneered. "Falcone used to pay people to do that. It isn't easy."

"Sure it is," the Joker waved him off.

It didn't go so well the first time. A man named Texas Joe arranged for the hydrofluoric acid to be delivered to the warehouse, and Frost picked up a plastic container the acid wouldn't eat through. The problem was the body only half-fit in the container, the arms and legs dangling over the sides.

"This isn't going to work," Crane predicted drily.

" _Sure_ it is," the Joker replied around a cigarette he was trying to light with a silver-plated zippo.

It _didn't_ work, as it turned out. Instead of the body slowly dissolving and the limbs succumbing to the acid, the acid dripped over the side, gnawing through the floorboards until the bucket of body parts shot through the floor, straight through the one below it as they squinted after it.

"Huh," the Joker said while Crane shot him a withering look.

* * *

Eventually, they figured out the best way to dissolve the bodies, but Crane could tell the Joker was getting antsy waiting for the science to play out and not learning anything worthwhile from his 'sniffing around'.

Then one night, the clown returned with a duffle bag full of money and announced they were going out, throwing a ski mask in Crane's face.

"Going out where?" he demanded, his heart leaping pitifully at the idea of leaving the warehouse.

"The _docks_ ," the Joker grunted impatiently, stuffing a cigarette between his lips. "You're the one who knows where Falcone brought that shit in last time," he grumbled.

"That _shit_ is a powerful psychotropic flora essential to my work," Crane snapped, prompting the Joker to growl something inaudible as he loped back out of the loft.

With the Joker behind the wheel and Crane sitting with his shoulders hunched up around his ears in the passenger seat, they crossed the Narrows bridge to the main island of Gotham, passing by the ferry terminals and the old shipyard until they reached Gotham Harbor. The docks were populated by cargo ships carrying thousands of shipping containers, most of them dropping off cheaply made products from China. One had _DAGGETT INDUSTRIES_ printed across the side, another _WAYNE ENTERPRISES_ , the two biggest shipping empires based out of Gotham.

"The Batman stopped all of the Russians' boats coming in this way," Crane complained as the station wagon screeched to a stop. "If the poppies are being smuggled in the same route, he would have stopped those too."

The Joker turned to glare at Crane, his teeth grinding together noisily. He was agitated about something, it was obvious from the dangerous gleam in his eye, like a wild animal about to lash out.

Since the night of Crane's escape, they'd reached a tentative alliance that mostly consisted of alternating between operating in silence and being openly hostile to one another in a benign kind of way, both of them accepting the situation at hand. But Crane had yet to see this twitchy, barely contained malice in the Joker, who always appeared in control of his emotions until that night.

And it struck Crane that perhaps... this was about Harleen.

A thought that brought him _great_ satisfaction even if it did make the Joker more volatile and unpredictable.

A tense silence settled between them as Crane led the way through the twisting paths of shipping containers to where Falcone's boats used to come in with drugs, illegal imports, Ra's al Ghul's poppies; whatever you wanted. At each point, they found nothing; the places where Falcone's boats used to be moored empty, their absence eerie, like a piece of Gotham's underworld had been amputated completely.

"I suppose we can cross this one off our list," Crane observed drily, peeling off the ski mask and raking a hand through his hair, which was starting to get long and unruly. "They're getting the poppies in another way."

But the Joker wasn't listening. He'd gone completely still, his eyes sweeping the tops of the shipping containers, and Crane realized he could be looking for the Batman. A spasm of fear pulsed through him, and he tugged the ski mask back down to cover his face just as the Joker pulled a handgun from the back of his pants and shoved it at Crane without looking at him.

Then he heard what the Joker was hearing. Not the Batman, but men talking.

_Russians._

The Joker grabbed the back of Crane's shirt and yanked him into the shadow of a shipping container, making him stumble and scowl indignantly. Crane knew he was useless in a fight, especially without the fear toxin or a group of thugs to protect him. He was a scientist, not a street-fighter; he relied on his intellect, not his physical prowess to defeat his enemies.

The Russians who appeared were typical-looking goons; beefy, stupid, and cocky. The Joker caught Crane's eye in the shadows, but Crane could only shrug incredulously, with no idea what the plan was or what was about to happen next.

The Joker rolled his eyes behind the ski mask, then loped out of the shadows after the Russians, not hesitating or caring that he was outnumbered. He grabbed one of the beefy thugs from behind, a wet gargle telling Crane he'd cut the man's throat. Then the other two Russians started shooting.

" ** _CRANE_**!" the Joker bellowed, his voice lowering to an inhuman register that startled Crane into shooting at the remaining Russians. He clipped one of them, making them drop their gun, but every other bullet in the chamber missed, shooting off into the night.

Moving with an erratic grace that reminded Crane of a tropical storm, the Joker swooped down to snatch up the Russian's gun and put two bullets in its owner's chest. Then he swiveled around with a showman-like flourish to shoot the last Russian in the knee, making him wail as he collapsed to the dock. The Joker threw himself on top of the wailing Russian, straddling his chest and grabbing a handful of his hair.

Crane watched warily as the Joker threw the gun aside and pulled a knife from his back pocket, holding it up to the man's face. When he didn't stop wailing, the Joker snarled like a rabid dog and ripped the ski mask off, revealing his scars.

"Alright _comrade_ , I'm only gonna ask once," he sneered. "Who's your boss, _huh_?"

"Alexandra Kosov!" the Russian stammered.

"What's she got you doin' here?" the Joker pressed him, and when the man just blubbered helplessly, he stabbed him in the shoulder, twisting the knife. "C'mon _buddy,_ I ain't got all night."

"Patrolling!"

"Patrolling for _what_?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" he begged. "Please, please!"

The Joker cut the man's throat with an irritated scowl, then twisted around to glare up at Crane, his eyes blazing.

"What is it with you fuckin' shrinks, _huh_?" he barked, leaping to his feet and stalking up to Crane, who held his ground and scowled resentfully. " _Oooh,_ you're looking _mad_ , Jonny-boy," the Joker hissed.

He ducked down so they were nose-to-nose, his lip curling as he searched Crane's face quickly.

"Get the fucking car," he snarled quietly, baring his teeth before he swung away, muttering to himself aggressively.

Crane stood frozen where he was, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to formulate a retort. But the Joker was too unpredictable, and Crane valued his life more than his dignity. Still trembling, he turned away from the clown and speed-walked back to the parking lot, indulging in fantasies of how he would deal with the Joker once he was in a position to do so.

When he returned with the car, they loaded the bodies into the trunk and headed back to the warehouse. The ride was silent and unbearably tense with the Joker twitching and muttering to himself, and generally acting insane by Crane's calculations.

Frost was waiting there to help drag the bodies up to the top floor where two plastic tubs full of hydrofluoric acid were waiting. He and Crane watched mutely as the Joker grabbed the bottle of bourbon off the makeshift table and stormed out, slamming the sliding door behind him.

"He's psychotic," Crane sneered, feeling bolder now that the threat of a rampaging Joker was no longer imminent.

Frost shrugged, looking conflicted, which immediately piqued Crane's curiosity.

"Where did that money come from?" he asked slyly, inclining his head to the duffle bag of money spilling out across the floor, the one the Joker brought with him when he first arrived.

Frost shot him a dubious look. "Who do you think?"

Crane smothered a smile. The Joker had been to see Harleen, and it didn't appear to have gone well.

* * *

The next afternoon the Joker returned with Lonnie in tow, looking sick and subdued with a pair of dark sunglasses covering red-rimmed eyes. Lonnie had a massive joint pinched between his lips and a cardboard box full of supplies under his arm.

Crane was sleeping fitfully on the sofa when they arrived, but he quickly pulled himself up, watching warily as the Joker rocked back on his heels and tried to type on a burner phone, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. Someone still wasn't in a good mood.

"What up, doc," Lonnie greeted Crane. "Let's make some fuckin' toys," he added, strolling over to one of the lab tables and dropping his box on it carelessly.

Crane tisked unhappily at Lonnie while the Joker collapsed on the sofa, his shoes still on, sunglasses still covering his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest like a corpse, apparently unconscious.

Lonnie picked up a soldering iron from his box and let a few sparks fly before he turned to grin at Crane.

"What is this?" Crane asked, watching Lonnie pull out sheets of layered tracing paper for a design.

"You don't recognize this?" Lonnie waved the papers in Crane's face. "It's your spiderman canister, dude."

Crane's eyes widened, shocked that his original design was being handed to him by the Joker's idiotic minion.

"Why weren't these included with the rest of my notes?" he seethed.

"Cause J didn't trust you not to be an asshole," Lonnie shot back breezily, taking a drag off his joint. "I guess you've proved you're not that bad after all," he added, his voice strained as he held the smoke in his lungs then blew it right in Crane's face.

"My life is now complete," Crane sneered through gritted teeth.

"J wants em' done before tonight," Lonnie flicked his joint roach away carelessly. "Sounds like you two have shit to do."

Crane pursed his lips and glanced back at the Joker where he was lying immobile on the couch, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked.

"Ugh," Lonnie rolled his eyes. "Something to do with Harley, probably. Fucking bitch."

"You don't like Harleen?" Crane asked slyly.

 _"Fuck_ no," Lonnie made a face as he got to work, his tattoed hands assembling what he needed. Apparently, in addition to being a hacker, he was a mechanical engineer too. "She's always up on her high horse, thinking she's better than everyone."

Crane raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this level of vitriol.

"You've known her a while, right?" Lonnie glanced sideways at Crane. "Has she always been such a cunt?"

"I've known Harleen for years," Crane replied drolly. "She only became insufferable when she met the Joker."

"Tell me about it," Lonnie scoffed. "Before she came along, J was like a lone wolf, you know? Just fuckin' _rocking_ shit. Then they get together and it's like nonstop. They're _never_ apart." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I have a theory though. I think it's like, he sees her as the female version of himself, so when he's fucking her, it's like he's fucking himself, ya know?"

Crane blinked hard twice, unwillingly picturing what Lonnie had described.

Still, it made a remarkable amount of sense.

"He is a narcissist," he agreed, guessing Lonnie's aversion to Harleen had more to do with jealousy over her stealing away the Joker's attention than anything about her personally. "And Harleen is a bitch," he added for solidarity's sake.

"She totally is!" Lonnie agreed, spreading his arms like it was obvious.

* * *

The Joker slept all day while Crane and Lonnie assembled the canisters, and Crane found himself reluctantly impressed by Lonnie's skill set. He could even keep up with the chemistry, nodding along and commenting knowledgeably, his words intelligent even if the way he spoke them wasn't.

They finished around sunset, filling the cartridges with fear toxin from the barrel drum and securing them to Crane's wrists for testing. Frost arrived with pizza, and the Joker woke up to inhale a few slices before he shuffled out of the loft and down the hallway.

"Why does he want me to have these?" Crane asked Lonnie, narrowing his eyes.

Lonnie shrugged. "It's not my job to ask questions. I just do what I'm told."

"You can't think for yourself?" Crane raised a wary eyebrow, wondering what it was about the Joker that inspired such devotion. Frost displayed it too. How many other people were out there blindly devoted to the Joker and his cause? He couldn't imagine Harleen—at least not the Harleen _he_ knew—falling for this messiah schtick.

Before Lonnie could answer, the loft's sliding door slammed open with a _CLANG!_ , revealing the Joker straightening his tie. He'd painted his face for the first time since Crane met him, the black greasepaint already spider-webbing down his white cheeks in the humid warehouse. His hair was sprayed green, and he'd straightened his shirt and suit, looking a fraction more put together.

He ran his tongue over his tobacco-stained teeth, meeting Crane's eye before he threw a burlap sack in his face. Crane flinched but caught it, his nostrils flaring when he realized the burlap sack was his mask. _His_ mask.

"C'mon, _Scarecrow,"_ the Joker sneered. "We've got _business_ to attend to."

Crane slowly rose from his position on the couch, the canisters of fear toxin at his wrists suddenly feeling heavy, the weight of the Joker asking him to be the Scarecrow exhilarating and loathsome all at once.

Frost was waiting out front with the station wagon, its headlights on and engine running.

"Where are we going?" Crane demanded as they pulled onto the freeway, praying this wouldn't be a repeat of the night at the docks.

The Joker sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He was laying across the backseat so his painted face wouldn't be seen.

"As you know, a lotta my boys are _big_ fans of BO," the Joker drawled, his hooded eyes focused on the window opposite him. "I keep hearing the place to get it on the Eastside is Grin and Bare It, which, uh, funnily enough, is run by Alexandra Kosov these days."

"Would that be the same Alexandra Kosov who has her thugs patrolling Gotham Harbor?" Crane asked, catching on.

"Oh you better believe it, Jonny," the Joker growled. "She's in charge of most of the muscle in this town nowadays too."

"Falcone used to take pride in his owning Gotham's thugs," Crane pointed out, his eyes narrowing. "Could this Kosov woman be the boss?"

The Joker wrinkled his nose and bounced his head from side to side a few times like he was thinking it over.

"Nah," he settled on eventually. "She may run the Eastside and sell this shit, but she ain't interested in taking over the city."

"So we're looking for _her_ boss," Crane inferred.

"Mm," the Joker seemed to agree. "The _big_ boss."

"And how are we supposed to take on the 'big boss'?" Crane scoffed with barely concealed disdain. "If your men are all on drugs, that leaves the three of us and _Lonnie_."

The Joker snorted incredulously.

" _I'm_ guessing that'll be right about when you regret leaving Harley out of this," he snapped, his eyes on the window.

Crane sat back in his seat, an uncomfortable wave of doubt rolling over him. When he thought of Harleen, he thought of her as she used to be, an academic. He didn't think of her as Harley Quinn the bank robber, kidnapper, and murderer the newspapers wrote about. He had never seen that side of her before, and he certainly didn't consider her someone worthwhile to have on his side in a fight. But the way the Joker spoke about her, it was as if he had absolute confidence in her ability to save both their lives.

They pulled off the freeway in the Cauldron neighborhood on the Eastside, the Joker staying quiet in the backseat, sulking maybe, as Crane wrestled with the anxiety flowing through him over being out in the open with the Batman hunting him, probably determined to drag him back to Arkham.

There was a bar at the corner of a narrow side street with ' _Grin and Bare It_ ' flashing in neon, though the image of a woman swinging around a pole remained unlit, suggesting it was no longer an establishment of ill repute. As they drove past the bar, Crane caught sight of a collection of men on the corner, most of them thuggish looking, some of them scrawny and clearly unwell. Drug dealers.

Frost pulled the station wagon into a small gravel parking lot beside the club.

"So, what's our plan?" Crane demanded, glancing back at the Joker, who had acquired a tire iron from somewhere, flexing his fingers around it. He was _excited_ , Crane realized.

"So much _talking,"_ the Joker grumbled to himself.

He did that a lot, muttering or grumbling under his breath. Crane wondered if it was a side effect of his narcissism, wherein he judged himself a better person to speak to than the people around him. Alternatively, it could be flat out psychosis.

"I'd like to know what we're doing," Crane snapped, earning himself an annoyed sigh.

"How about _this_ ," the Joker sat up and leaned into the front seat, making Crane wrinkled his nose and recoil. "I'll take some of em' out, you hit the other ones with your uh, gas or _whatever._ "

"We're just going to run out on the street and attack those men? _That's_ your plan?" Crane scoffed.

 _"Improvise_ ," the Joker suggested with a nasty grin.

Then he rolled away, kicking his door open and hopping out to lope across the gravel parking lot.

Crane remained where he was, frozen with indecision. He closed his eyes to collect himself, then pushed his door open and rushed after the Joker, his shirt sticking to his back with nervous sweat.

He caught up with the clown at the corner of the building where he was eyeballing the group of dealers.

"Remember," the Joker said gruffly, as Crane pulled his mask on, instantly feeling safer behind it. "We only gotta talk to _one_ of them."

* * *

The Joker howled with laughter as Frost sped back to the warehouse, their small victory apparently snapping him out of the foul mood he'd been in for days. Crane barked at him to shut up but his heart wasn't in it. They'd killed or seriously impaired all but one of the thugs outside Grin and Bare It, a massive man with a tattoo of a dragon on his scalp. The Joker had pushed him up against the wall, holding him down for Crane to hit him with the toxin. Watching it work— _really_ work on a live subject in the real world, not just on a test subject in a lab—watching them react to the Scarecrow was... _exhilarating._

After two years trapped in Arkham and two and a half weeks trapped in the warehouse with only one miserable outing in which he'd proved himself useless, Crane finally started to feel... _strong._

They got a name out of the thug too. He claimed his supplier was the Cheetah Bar, something the Joker seemed to find entertaining.

Back at the warehouse, they drank with Frost and Lonnie, with Lonnie doing most of the talking while the Joker smoked and struggled to sit still. He seemed satisfied with how the night had panned out, something Crane reluctantly agreed with. He could almost... _almost_ understand what these men found so inspiring about him. If you were looking for something to believe in and had nothing to offer the world yourself, the Joker and the mystical confidence he projected could fill in the gaps.

When Crane woke up on the air mattress the next day the Joker was gone, but he returned late that afternoon, bringing an old man wearing a monocle who he simply introduced as his tailor. The tailor came bearing two garment bags, ostensibly for the sake of blending in at the Cheetah Bar. One was a skinny black suit for the Joker, which he changed into in the middle of the loft without a hint of shame over his nakedness. It fit him like a glove, the tailor apparently already having his measurements. Crane suspected he would wear it until there were holes in the knees or a sleeve got ripped off.

The other was a suit for Crane, which was close enough to his size, the tailor pinning it in places where it needed tailoring.

Crane didn't consider himself to be vain, but with a good suit, a fresh shave, and his hair combed back off his face, he felt _human_ again.

But he wasn't about to let the Joker know that.

"This feels excessive," Crane sneered as they jogged down the stairwell. "Going... _undercover."_

"Undercover," the Joker scoffed, shooting Crane a withering look over his shoulder. He'd applied some sort of spray-on stubble that looked absurd under the bright lights of the loft, but in the more dimly lit stairwell, it almost seemed natural and covered his scars. In a dark gentlemen's club, he would fit right in. "Ya know _street_ brawls aren't the only way to get information outta people."

"Who exactly are we trying to get information out of?" Crane demanded, feeling out of his depth.

"You _think_ too much, Jonny," the Joker drawled as they burst out of the warehouse's side door and onto the street where Frost was waiting with a shiny black town car. "Just relax, _mingle,_ see what happens."

"Mingle," Crane muttered moodily, sliding into the backseat.

The Cheetah Bar was off the main drag Uptown, just south of Robinson Park, which used to be Falcone territory but had developed into a 'hip' neighborhood. Still, it would seem the Cheetah Bar held a veneer of that old mob-world if Eastside thugs were claiming that was where they bought their drugs.

There was a small collection of well-heeled men smoking outside the club when Frost dropped them off, a small sign with a cheetah's paw glowing yellow claiming the bar's name. Crane felt his entire body tense up as he staggered after the Joker, not sure how they were going to get away with being accepted through the front door like normal people when they were both known criminals.

But the Joker just flashed the bouncers a smirk and gave a fake name—Will Thatcher—affecting a west-coast drawl instead of his usual nasal, hard to place accent. The bouncers checked the name off a list and lifted a velvet rope for them to pass, the Joker shooting Crane a smug smirk over his shoulder.

It was very much a gentleman's club in the 1960s mold. Small, dark, and smokey, with only enough space for fifty or sixty people. It was dotted with miniature stages outfitted with gold poles for slender, barefoot girls in bikinis to swing around, their bodies decorated with swirls of pale blue and gold paint. The walls were draped with dark curtains and the upholstery was red velvet, and the music was... _slinky_ was the best word for it.

The Joker snatched two tumblers of liquor from the bar, again using that bland, west-coast accent, and ignored Crane's withering look as he shoved one into his hands. They grabbed a table against the wall where they could people watch, the Joker being uncharacteristically still for the sake of the role he was playing. Crane wondered if later when he didn't have to pretend anymore, the nervous energy he'd stored up all night would explode out of him in some dramatic fashion or another.

"Ohhh, look who it is," the Joker growled, squinting across the room at an overweight black man in a pinstriped suit. "If it isn't Fats Gambol."

 _"Who?"_ Crane made a face as they watched the man move around the room shaking hands.

"Ah, Harley stabbed him a few times last Christmas," the Joker said off-handedly, draining the rest of his drink. "Him and his mob princess _snuggle_ bunny run the place."

Crane turned to stare at the Joker, his nostrils flaring. "You aren't worried he'll recognize you?"

The Joker shrugged carelessly like it wasn't _his_ problem if someone recognized him.

"You're only human, you know," Crane pointed out, pulling a rattly chuckle out of the Joker.

He picked up Crane's discarded drink and continued to people watch while Crane sulked, wondering if they were waiting for something specific and feeling out of his element.

Then two girls in bikinis and body paint approached them, a blonde and a brunette, both stunningly beautiful and smiling coquettishly. Not actually interested, just wanting a big tip, Crane thought cynically.

"Hi," the blonde said, fluttering her heavily painted eyelashes at the Joker.

He ignored her, his head tipping to the side as he eyed up the brunette, smirking caddishly at her. The girls exchanged a look then switched places so the blonde was standing in front of Crane, now fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"Hi," she tried again, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Can I sit here?"

Crane's lip started curling into a sneer but he fought it back.

"Sure," he agreed stiffly, tensing when she lowered herself into his lap and laid one slim arm across his shoulders, smiling prettily.

"What's your name?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Crane balled his hands into fists and pushed them into the velvet seat, despising everything about the situation.

"Steve," he said, sounding miserable.

"Steve," the girl tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder, her pretty smile still firmly in place. "I'm Mirabelle."

Crane didn't believe that for a second.

"What do you do, Steve?"

"I'm a... psychologist," he admitted tersely. Steve the psychologist. He looked at the Joker and almost scoffed outright.

The brunette had an arm around his neck, and one hand braced on his chest, biting her lip and giggling as the Joker whispered in her ear, a rakish smirk on his lips. His hand was on her waist, his thumb swiping over one of her ribs, smearing the body paint there. He pulled away from her and held his thumb up, feigning an apology that made her giggle and blush before she ducked down to talk in his ear.

Without her looking, the smirk dropped off the Joker's face and he shot Crane an expectant look, one eyebrow raised meaningfully.

Crane scowled back at him just as the brunette lifted her head, smiling as the Joker tucked her hair behind her ear for her. Her smile was different from the pretty one Mirabelle was giving Crane. Hers was a real smile, laced with genuine desire, and Crane could see it grow when the Joker started whispering in her ear again. They exchanged a few more smirks and whispered words, and Crane saw her mouth _'Wanna get out of here'?_ , to which the Joker gestured to Crane and rolled his eyes. Instead, he offered the brunette a smartphone to type her number in before she handed it back and climbed off of him, miming ' _Call me_.'

Mirabelle, who had been staring off into space, realized her friend was gone and glanced at Crane. He glared back at her sourly, and she promptly slid off his lap, eager to get away.

"Alright," the Joker announced after draining the last of Crane's drink. "Let's get outta here."

Confused but grateful to be done with the farce, Crane followed the Joker back through the crowd and out onto the street where Frost pulled up with the town car in a remarkably timely fashion.

"Well, that was interesting," Crane sneered once they were in the backseat. "I hope you had fun."

"Uh huh," the Joker muttered dismissively, already lighting a cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. _"Vanessa_ , aka _Sarah_ , had some very interesting information."

"What kind of information?" Crane narrowed his eyes.

"The she's a big fan of Blue Orchid and knows the best place to get it is the Iceberg Lounge kind," the Joker replied, his head rolling toward Crane, so he could shoot him a knowing look. "She says Fats buys his stuff from the Iceberg Lounge, cuts it and sells it. She seems to think they're the main suppliers, the uh, next step up the pyramid."

"The Iceberg Lounge?" Crane looked out the window, his mouth puckering. "Oswald Cobblepot's club," he sneered.

"Apparently it belongs to _Miss_ _Lucy_ now," the Joker drawled, exhaling a long stream of smoke through his nose.

There was a stretch of silence, each of them considering what the Iceberg Lounge being in charge of the city's BO meant in a wider sense. It didn't answer any of Crane's questions about how the poppies were getting into the city, but he would reluctantly concede that the Joker's strategy of moving up the food chain appeared to be working.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself with Vanessa-slash-Sarah," Crane observed pettily.

The Joker grunted something incoherent and stared out the window, smoking in silence and clearly deep in thought.

* * *

Crane hoped the next step wouldn't be to get dressed up and go to the Iceberg Lounge, not if it would be as agonizingly awkward as their night out at the Cheetah Bar. Instead, the Joker disappeared for long stretches of time over the days that followed, returning to the warehouse to sleep, smelling of whiskey and tobacco, but always appearing sober and exasperated.

While the clown worked on gathering information out of the thugs at "Marty's Place", Crane worked toward developing a new compound derived from Blue Orchid. So far, it wasn't working, the subjects would just smile happily as he questioned them, even when he wore the Scarecrow mask.

Those feelers the Joker put out seemed to work because just a few nights later, he returned to announce he and Harleen had been _summoned_ to the Iceberg Lounge.

"You agreed Harleen would have nothing to do with this," Crane complained, watching the Joker light a cigarette.

"She _doesn't_ ," he snapped, glowering at Crane resentfully, much to Crane's delight. "But me and her are kinda a package deal," he added irritably.

"Won't she be wondering where you've been all this time?" Crane pressed, smothering a smirk.

"She's workin'," the Joker shot back. "And my girl ain't exactly the _needy_ type."

"Your _girl_?" Crane raised a scornful eyebrow. "Are you in high school?"

The Joker chuckled throatily, apparently finding this amusing, but said nothing else.

He left later that night with Frost, his face painted, hair green, and suit neat, and didn't return the next morning when Frost swung by to drop off food and check in. Crane immediately suspected the Joker was still with Harleen. Why wouldn't he be? He was well aware that Harleen was the Joker's preferred partner, an idea that made him strangely jealous as he imagined the Joker simply never coming back to the warehouse, leaving Crane behind just as Harleen had left him at Arkham.

But the Joker did return around dawn a day later, pale with dark circles under his eyes, looking even worse than he usually did. Frost was with him, hauling a new test subject for Crane over his massive shoulder and dragging a fluoride-blue container to replace the one they'd nearly destroyed with hydrofluoric acid.

"How was it?" Crane asked warily while the Joker did his usual routine of falling on the couch and lighting a cigarette.

"Mmph," was all he said, hunching forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Then he looked up at Crane, his expression impossible to read as he ran his tongue over the scar splitting his bottom lip. "They want Janice Porter brought in _... alive_."

"The District Attorney?" Crane lifted an eyebrow. "Why?"

"The _why_ ain't usually part of the hitman business, Jonny," the Joker drawled.

"And what about the big boss?" Crane demanded. "Did you make it any further up the food chain?"

The Joker growled under his breath, his dark eyes rolling up to Crane, nearly making Crane take a step back beneath his unnervingly malicious stare.

"Miss Lucy's done well for herself," the Joker replied, still glowering. "But she's not the big boss."

"And Harleen?" Crane pressed. "Does she suspect anything?"

"Ya know, you're _really_ makin' me think you've got a _thing_ for her," the Joker snapped, suddenly leaping off the couch. He was in Crane's face in less than a second, towering over him. "What is it, huh? She say _no_ to some uh... student-teacher time or what?"

Crane scowled up at the Joker resentfully. "I find her... _disappointing._ "

"Pshh," the Joker huffed and swung away, falling back on the couch and letting his head dangle over the arm limply. "On _that,_ we can agree."

* * *

The following night the Joker and Frost went to deal with the District Attorney while Crane remained at the warehouse, trialing his new but vastly inferior compound. Frustrated and impatient to find the blue poppy supplier so the partnership with the Joker could finally end, he used the original fear toxin on his current subject and questioned them about where the drugs came from.

It was only then that he made a breakthrough, his original compound proving its superior effectiveness for obtaining information.

The junkie gave Crane a location in Chinatown, claiming he'd been paid to take drugs and let himself be tested.

Crane immediately texted the Joker, and a few hours later, feeling anxious and paranoid over leaving the warehouse alone, he drove the station wagon Uptown, parking in a dark alley where he waited for the Joker and Frost.

Crane looked over his shoulder as their town car pulled into the alley behind him, watching warily through the back windscreen as it rolled to a stop. Car doors opened and shut, then a trunk slammed before the Joker circled the front of the station wagon and threw himself into the passenger seat.

"Floor it," he snapped roughly, indicating a sense of urgency that made Crane shoot him a curious look as he sped backward out of the alley.

When they passed the town car, he saw Harleen standing beside the trunk, and even in the dark alley, he could see the sadness in her big blues eyes.

Like her heart was breaking.

Crane smothered a smirk as he spun the wheel, making the old car fishtail before they sped east toward Chinatown.

The Joker was quiet during the drive, sloppily applying his face paint without a mirror and grunting when Crane filled him in on what the junkie told him—about a tea shop with a secret entrance to its basement where the drugs were made. It seemed to Crane that this was their big break, that this should have been something to get excited about, but the Joker just sulked silently. Harleen's influence, no doubt.

Crane parked on the street and grabbed his mask out of the glove compartment, then looked at the Joker expectantly.

"Are you done sulking over her yet?" he sneered before pulling on his mask.

What they found in the basement of the tea shop was the remains of a lab, including parts of an MRI machine. It was far more advanced than what Crane had set up at the warehouse, and he could almost feel the presence of the chemist who invented Blue Orchid lingering there like a specter.

Duct tape was still visible on the concrete floor, walls, and ceiling where plastic tarps would have been laid, indicating the chemist wanted a sterile environment to work in, which meant he was a professional. The area cornered off was small, with only enough room for two or three people at a time in the sterile space, suggesting the Chemist preferred to work alone. The MRI machine had its computer and memory removed, only the shell of it remaining, but its presence told Crane this chemist was a medical doctor, not a psychologist, his interest in the biological effects of his compound rather than the behavioral. Additionally, the MRI machine's very existence in that basement told him this operation had plenty of funding.

 _Funding_ from the big boss.

As they looked around and Crane talked, the Joker gradually shook off his foul, Harleen-induced mood, shifting into a more thoughtful, twitchy silence that carried over on the drive back to the warehouse.

He alternated between staring at the glovebox, deep in thought, and thumbing around on the smartphone. When they got back to the loft, the Joker promptly rid himself of his suit jacket, tie, and shirt, as if Crane wasn't even there, then fell on the couch, shirtless and barefoot, and grabbed the last pack of cigarettes from a carton lying discarded on the makeshift coffee table.

Crane realized then that he had inadvertently become _roommates_ with the Joker. But after close to twenty-four hours without sleep, his brain was starting to shut down. He collapsed onto the air mattress and pulled the sleeping bag over his head as sleep claimed him.

* * *

They were finally making headway on the big boss, with the Iceberg Lounge at the top of the food chain, possibly with the big boss directly above them. Crane, despite himself, had come around to the Joker's original premise— that learning the boss's identity for the sake of getting ahead of the Batman was a wise move. And of course, the big boss had access to the poppies, which Crane would need to get back on his feet.

Frost left to get pizza despite the thunderstorm outside, leaving the Joker and Crane to discuss the possibility of a R'as al Ghul 2.0 as they drank bourbon and the Joker chain-smoked. Crane was not much of a drinker, but he accepted the quasi-social drink, letting it settle his nerves. It made it harder to think clearly, which the Joker didn't seem to have a problem with.

"Are you going to look into why Miss Lucy wants Janice Porter?" Crane asked slyly.

 _"_ Who cares," the Joker waved a dismissive hand. "Probably the same reason they _always_ want the DA dead."

"Investigating something they shouldn't be," Crane stated drily, and when the Joker lifted an intrigued eyebrow at him he explained. "I had my own dealings with Rachel Dawes."

The Joker's eyes widened with interest, and he hummed curiously as he leaned forward. "Well don't leave me hangin', Jonny."

Crane ground his teeth together, preparing to tell an edited version of his story when the steel door suddenly crashed open with a _CLANG!_ making him jump as he whirled around.

Harleen stood there in the doorway, her hands braced against the frame. She was soaking wet, her hair dripping and mascara running down her face, her shirt see-through and clinging to her skin. She looked _wild_ , the threat of violence radiating from her just as it did the Joker when he was agitated.

Her eyes widened incredulously as she looked between them, and then quickly took stock of the rest of the room, barely concealed fury lighting up her eyes.

Crane felt a shameful flicker of fear as it struck him that _this_ was the Harley Quinn people spoke about with such terror. This was not the sly, ambitious Harleen he had known, though perhaps there had been hints of _this_ lingering beneath the surface. A narrowed glare here, a scowl there, a ruthlessness that had yet to be fully unleashed like it was now.

"What the fuck is going on!" she demanded with a snarl.

* * *

**A/N: Welp, now you all know what's been going on!**

**In my dream world, this whole chapter would be a 4-minute montage set to[Boney M - 'Sunny'](https://youtu.be/qA3M3360lo8) **

**There's a couple of writing exercises for Crane on my Tumblr (knit-wear-it) if you're interested in a little background on his & Harley's past called [Abnormal Psychology I](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/625352912494886912/knit-wear-it-abnormal-psychology-i-1-a-lesson) and [Abnormal Psychology II](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/625530932381859840/knit-wear-it-abnormal-psychology-ii-joan). (How fab that AO3 lets you hyper link) My anonymous Asks are always open there too! :)**

**I am very interested to find out what folks think about Crane... I'm not 100% on the characterization, but hopefully it's passable, lol. I feel like if he wasn't part of such a big picture or at least being contrasted with the Joker, you could do some really interesting/scary things with the character.**

_**Next: Harley starts hunting for the big boss, and Vicki does some digging of her own.** _

**Please review and comment, I have an ego the size of the sun and it needs to be fed!  
**

**xo**


	6. Chapter 6

**Previously: The Joker and Crane have been working behind Harley's back to find the 'big boss' before the Batman catches on.** **Harley has made a friend in Hamilton Hill's campaign manager Arthur Reeves. When she finds out about Crane she is, predictably, pissed.**

_Theme: Donna Summer - 'I Feel Love' (12" Version) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Vnw8zKmjhr1jczUeaqiQg?si=ydrsWHkDToW2ZZHH1H8RCw)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/B2qI6UDD2uQ)) _

* * *

The Pantomime

6.

* * *

"What the fuck is going on!" Harley raged, her heart pounding in her ears as she looked between the Joker and Crane and then around the room again, struggling to accept what she was seeing.

Behind the couch, were two tables covered in beakers, flasks, and rubber tubing, and beside the tables were a pair of gurneys currently without patients. On the floor beside the gurneys were two massive plastic tubs, surrounded by at least twenty empty ten-gallon jugs labeled _HYDROFLUORIC ACID._ Then, behind the couch was a barrel drum with _MCU PROPERTY_ stenciled on the side. Harley was very familiar with that particular drum. It was what remained of Crane's fear toxin.

She put two and two together quickly—that Crane had been using drug addicts as test subjects and dumping the bodies, and the Joker had been helping him, which was entirely beyond her comprehension.

Thus far, the Joker remained silent, sprawled out in the corner of the couch, smoking lazily as he watched her react. Then Crane had the balls to scowl at him.

"What is _she_ doing here?" he demanded, not looking at Harley, whose eyes widened indignantly.

"I dunno," the Joker shrugged, still watching her without a hint of an expression on his face. "You said it yourself, Jonny... she's _relentless_ once she gets an idea in her head

It wasn't said spitefully, more of an observation, but Harley could only stare at him helplessly, bewildered, and once again, _hurt._

She looked away, her jaw working as she tried to concentrate and compartmentalize.

"What are you doing here, Harleen?" Crane scowled. He got to his feet, setting an empty glass on the table beside a bottle of bourbon. 

They had been drinking together, like _friends_.

Harley licked her lips, trying to understand, and failing. That wasn't good enough. She stepped into the loft and slammed the heavy steel door shut behind her, letting them know she wasn't going anywhere, and that they had some explaining to do.

"A friend of mine at the GCPD had some questions about hydrofluoric acid after he started finding body parts in the Narrows," she said coldly, moving further into the room. She noticed an air mattress and piles of clothes on the floor along with countless empty pizza boxes. They had been living there. Like _roommates._ "I had a look into who sells hydrofluoric acid, and shockingly enough, that led me here."

Crane scoffed. "You're here _helping_ the GCPD?"

"I'm here because you two idiots didn't cover your tracks," Harley spat, more at the Joker to let him know she thought he was slipping. But he just gazed back at her impassively, as if her presence there meant nothing. "So?" she demanded, her voice cracking as she turned to Crane, her eyes sweeping over him quickly. He didn't look as sickly as she remembered him from Arkham. There was color in his cheeks, and his pale eyes were glinting dangerously, _confidently._ "What the hell are you doing here?"

Crane looked to the Joker for help, but he just shrugged, making Crane roll his eyes.

"In short, Blue Orchid is made from the same poppies as my fear toxin,” he informed Harley hostily. “J helped me escape Arkham to find out where it came from before the Batman does."

Harley was so stunned by this quick succession of revelations—not in the least the familiar, almost _privileged_ way Crane called the Joker ‘J’—that she was momentarily speechless. She had never experienced the fear toxin first hand, but she had an academic understanding of its composition and effect on the brain. Suddenly, her experience at the Iceberg Lounge made all kinds of sense.

Also… of _course_ this was about the Batman. 

Of course it was. The Joker would never put this much effort into a project unless the flying rodent was involved. 

As for Crane's break out... Harley did some quick mental math and judged it to have been a week after they got back to Gotham. That was the point when the Joker started pulling away from her. Apparently, because he'd been hiding this partnership with Crane, which was by far the most bewildering part of all of this.

"And did you find out who's made the drugs?" she demanded.

"We know he's a medical doctor, and well-funded," Crane said haughtily. "Perhaps a psychiatrist. But we don't have a name yet."

"What about the poppies?” She pressed them. “How are they getting into Gotham?"

"We're workin' on that too," the Joker drawled, his tongue sliding along his bottom lip. "We're looking for the _big_ boss."

"The big boss?" Harley's eyes widened, remembering the man from the Iceberg Lounge the night before. The one whose face she couldn't remember because of the damn drugs. "Who is it?"

"Not Lucy, I'll tell ya that," the Joker growled, lighting a fresh cigarette.

Harley narrowed her eyes. "Is _that_ why we went to the Iceberg Lounge? To check in on Lucy?"

He shrugged again, and Harley almost lost it. She braced both hands on her hips and turned away, breathing deeply to calm down. He was being an asshole on purpose, and that was fine. She was there for information, not consolation. She turned her head to the side, not looking at them.

"Why did you think it was Lucy?"

"We followed the money," Crane filled in smugly. "All roads lead to the Iceberg Lounge."

Harley thought about Fats and Alberto the night before, and Lucy's constant referrals to her 'boss.'

She turned around, shooting Crane a dirty look.

"Lucy has a very mysterious boss who she won't name," Harley announced, her voice sounding stronger than she felt. "He's the reason she was able to afford to turn the club around. Maybe a well-funded doctor with a penchant for psychopharmacology and access to the blue poppy is on his payroll too."

Crane slowly turned to look at the Joker, who once again shrugged, but this time he had a small smile on his mouth, silently taunting Crane about something.

Harley looked between them again, trying to understand why they would work together behind her back.

She caught the Joker's eye. "I need to talk to you."

His eyebrows rose, and he dropped the half-smoked cigarette in his glass, making it hiss and die in the dregs of liquor as he rose to his feet.

Harley shot Crane one last piercing glare that he returned venomously before she turned to leave, the Joker loping along behind her. 

She hadn't seen Crane in almost two years, and if memory served, the last time she'd visited his cell at Arkham, he'd begged her to help him escape. She'd walked away, ignoring him as he screamed her name.

That pathetic show of desperation stuck with her, coloring her opinion of him along with the fact that he had been played a fool by a secret society of ninjas. Not to mention his rampant self-important arrogance. All of it screamed entitled ineptitude, something Harley didn’t have the patience to entertain. 

Despite all of that, she still respected his mind and his work. He’d inspired her when she was a student, his passion for the human mind mirroring her own, and she had genuinely enjoyed their conversations at Arkham. Crane always felt like a kindred spirit, before and after his incarceration. But then she met the Joker, which had been like having a spotlight shone on her painfully micro-managed life of pretending to be something she wasn't.

But now that she knew Crane was the reason for the Joker’s absence, any fond feelings she might have had for him were out the window, leaving bitter disdain in their wake.

From Crane's sneering show of force, it was clear he still resented her for leaving him at Arkham. Perhaps dwelling on it, _obsessing_ over it for years.

The loft's heavy door slammed closed with a metallic rattle and Harley turned to face the Joker. He stared back at her impassively, his jaw twitching. Harley chose to look at the door behind him, finding looking directly at him too upsetting.

"I spoke to Sly," she said, her mouth suddenly dry. "Someone was asking around about us after we left."

There was a long pause before he spoke. "That's not so strange."

"They know about Marty's house," Harley continued stiffly. "And they know about Lonnie."

The Joker took a sudden step toward her, but Harley refused to look at him, keeping her eyes trained on the steel door.

"Know _what_ about Lonnie?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, but Harley shook her head.

"I don't know. Sly said he didn't tell them his name," she swallowed thickly. "But it sounds like they shook down everyone else. Dough Boy and Ralphie are dead because they didn't talk, so... don't trust anyone."

The Joker took another cautious step toward Harley, but she still refused to look at him. "What else?" he growled, correctly reading her apprehension.

"They asked about our..." Harley rolled her eyes toward him reluctantly, feeling dread pool in her stomach now that she was repeating this to him. "Relationship."

"Our... _relationship_?" his eyebrows rose as he turned his head to the side like he hadn't heard her right. The evasive shrugging performance he'd given in front of Crane was gone now.

Harley held his gaze, her throat feeling thick. "They asked him what it would take to get me to kill you."

The Joker laughed shortly, a sharp, incredulous bark that seemed to hang in the air between them. Then he ran a hand over his jaw and turned around to stare at the wall, his mind obviously working fast.

"I think I saw the big boss at the Iceberg Lounge last night," Harley continued, her voice strained. "In that fucking birdcage."

The Joker whirled around to face her. "You saw the _big_ boss?"

"I was high, so I didn't see his face right," Harley explained weakly. "But I'm sure it was him. Lucy kept talking about him like he was... her _savior_ or something. Whoever her boss is, I’m betting it's the same person paying your doctor with the blue poppies. The same person asking questions about us. Maybe they're the one who had Holiday kill Marty too."

The Joker hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he nodded once. 

"Alright," he met her eyes. "What’re you gonna do?"

"I'll go back to the Iceberg Lounge," Harley sighed, feeling exhausted. "Dig around. See what I can find."

"Alright," he said again like he was giving her his blessing.

Harley took this as her cue to leave. She shot the Joker one last lingering look, needing to see him again. He was standing completely still, staring at her blankly, looking almost forlorn.

Almost.

* * *

When Harley got back to Samantha's apartment, she was wet, cold, tired, and depressed. She shed her clothes and took a quick shower, the storm outside still raging. Then she hid under Samantha’s duvet, willing herself to sleep instead of obsessing over why the Joker would hide his project with Crane from her.

She slept fitfully, slipping in and out of sleep with strange dreams about the Joker and the Riddler and the big boss with no face, all of them dancing on the fringes of her brain like firebugs she would never be able to pin down. She stayed in bed well into the afternoon, wrestling with her declaration to go back to the Iceberg Lounge and dig around, an idea that made her feel vaguely sick compared to the much more desirable idea of kidnapping Lucy and torturing information out of her.

But Lucy was just a cog in the wheel. There was clearly much more at play, and taking her out of the game early could make things worse, not better.

Eventually, Harley got hungry enough to get out of bed and heat up another one of Samantha's batch-cooked meals from the freezer—tofu Thai green curry. She tried calling Pam, but her phone was off, so she settled for standing in front of Samantha’s closet, numbly staring at the colorful frocks there and trying to make a plan. _Any_ plan. 

If she was going to socialize at the Iceberg Lounge for the sake of digging up information, she would need to look the part. Harley fingered her butchered hair, remembering a contemporary proverb about a hair cut making you feel like a new woman. A fresh start. It was wishy-washy thinking, but Harley was in the middle of the first break up she actually cared about, and she was willing to take some pedestrian advice on how to deal with it like a ‘normal’ woman.

* * *

The Flatiron Building in Midtown was built in the 80s at the tail end of the depression. It was a skyscraper designed to rival Wayne Tower, dominating Gotham’s skyline with plate-glass chevrons and golden pyramids, a gaudy imitation of the art-deco style that characterized much of the city’s architecture.

Vicki remembered reading that office space in the Flatiron was the most expensive in the city, outstripping all the other glass and chrome structures on Wall Street by a few hundred per square foot. Hill Consulting operated on the building's top floors, the most expensive of all.

She also remembered hearing that Carmine Falcone and his family used to live in the Flatiron’s penthouse.

Walking into the lobby, with its pink marble floors, golden columns, and elaborate water features, Vicki felt like she'd been transported to another plane of existence. She rode a private elevator up to the fifty-third floor, watching the floors tick by as she reexamined her reasons for being there.

Harley Quinn had been speaking to Hamilton Hill's campaign manager. Vicki didn't know what that said about Hill or his campaign, and she didn't know what Harley wanted from them. Even if Vicki did know the answers to any of those questions, she didn't know what _she_ could do about it. But her father used to say she was relentless once she got an idea in her head, and Vicki had not been able to stop thinking that _maybe_ she could learn something from Hill. Something that could point to what Harley had planned for the city.

Arthur Reeves was waiting for her in reception, tall and blonde, clean-cut and all-American, and grinning like he'd won the lottery.

"Vicki Vale," he greeted her cheerfully, his eyebrows rising when he saw she was wearing white sneakers instead of heels with her tailored slacks.

"Mr Reeves," Vicki plastered on a fake smile as she offered him her hand.

She would have preferred to shove a microphone in his face and demand some answers.

"Hamilton's really looking forward to getting a chance to connect with your readers," Reeves smirked, gesturing for her to follow him down a carpeted hallway, past another gurgling water feature. "And thanks so much for signing that NDA we sent over. Standard procedure, I'm sure you understand," he shot her a brilliant white grin.

"Of course," Vicki agreed politely, remembering what Thomas Elliot said about Hill's iron-clad NDAs. She'd signed the NDA without showing it to the Globe's lawyers, judging its very existence to be enough reason not to write or publish the interview she was about to conduct. 

"Can I get you some coffee, tea, water? Hey Karen," Reeves continued, as they passed a receptionist, Karen, looking eager to please.

"No, thank you," Vicki gave him another tight smile.

"Well, alright," Reeves beamed, knocking twice on an office door that read _HAMILTON HILL, C.E.O._ "Let's get right down to it!"

Hill's office was predictably extravagant, featuring more of the pink marble columns from the lobby, floor-to-ceiling views of the city. There was a fireplace flanked by overstuffed chairs, a small bar in the corner, and a massive mahogany desk that looked like it was trying to compensate for something. On the wall behind the desk was a golden mural, and after a few seconds of squinting at it, Vicki realized it depicted the tale of King Midas, a greek myth about a man who turned everything he touched to gold.

Hill stood up behind his desk, beaming as he opened his arms wide in a charismatic welcome, the golden mural glowing behind him. He was probably sixty, with a bushy gray mustache and leathery brown skin from too much time spent in tanning beds. It was immediately clear to Vicki that he was a bullshit artist of the highest caliber, with something wolfishly keen glinting in his watery eyes.

"Vicki Vale!" he greeted her boorishly, shaking Vicki's hand. "Welcome, welcome, take a seat! This is Circe," he gestured to a willowy blonde sitting in one of the two chairs facing his desk. "She's my publicist, but she won't let me get away with anything!"

"Hello," Vicki offered Circe her hand, taking note of her salmon-pink shift dress and the matching pillbox hat perched jauntily on her sleek blonde bob.

Circe beamed warmly at Vicki, squeezing her hand but not saying anything, making Vicki falter. Usually, this was the part where the publicist gave a spiel about what was and was not on the table for discussion, but Circe just continued to smile silently and serenely. 

"Well, I'll let you guys get on with it," Reeves grinned, looking pleased with himself as he backed out of the office.

"Oh, Reeves, have Roman call me later so we can go over the, uh," Hill snapped his fingers twice. "Details of the fundraiser."

"You got it, boss," Reeves winked boyishly before making his escape.

Hill turned back to Vicki, who was watching everything unfold with a smile, though she wasn't sure how natural it looked when she was inwardly cringing.

"Ah, this is for _you,_ " Hill continued, selecting a sheet of paper and pushing it across his massive desk. "My donor list. Reeves thinks you'd be interested in finding out who's supporting us!"

Vicki stood up to pick up the list of names printed on expensively watermarked Hill Consulting paper, and saw that each name listed had a dollar sign with at least three zeros attached to it. She read over the list twice, picking out the names she recognized as those of Gotham's wealthiest citizens and business moguls. But there was one name that stood out, the sheer size of their donation far outstripping the generosity of the other donors: John Daggett, CEO of Daggett Industries. 

"Thank you," Vicki said, folding the list in half and tucking it in her handbag before she placed a tape recorder on Hill's desk. "Do you mind if we jump right in?"

"Of course, of course!" Hill boomed, waving his arms for her to continue. "I'm an open book, Ms Vale."

"Why don't you tell me about your vision for Making Gotham Great Again," Vicki opened, watching Hill's eyes light up as he launched into his list of campaign promises. Vicki estimated most of them would benefit the people who lived and worked in that very building more than the average Gotham citizen, but she didn't derail him. She lobbed softball questions that were easy for him to spin, and she didn't raise any of the many obvious problems his prescriptions for the city presented. She let him have his moment.

"You've spoken a lot about your platform, and I understand that's your primary motivation for running," Vicki continued, her eyes drifting to Circe, who was staring dreamily at Hill, not blinking. "But aside from policy, what else inspired you to run for Mayor?"

"Aside from policy! Ah, you want the personal angle, don't you, Ms Vale," Hill huffed good-naturedly, and when Vicki only offered him a pinched smile, he sighed leisurely. "In the consulting business, you're only as good as the advice you give or the advice you take, and I get some excellent advice, Ms Vale."

"One of your consultants advised you to run?" Vicki’s eyebrows raised.

"Oh, nothing like that," Hill waved her off, looking thoughtful before he laughed boorishly. "Aw, hell, let's get a little personal—it makes for some good color, don't you think?"

"Sure," Vicki agreed, offering him another pinched smile.

"I don't mind telling you I have some very fine people working for me, Ms Vale. Some of them are no doubt the brightest minds of their generation," he pitched forward, a performance of being candid. "And one of my top earners, he's someone I trust implicitly. In fact, in many ways, he's like a son to me— no offense to my actual son, of course!" he laughed heartily at his own joke. "I mean, this man is a real problem solver, a philosopher, a _wise man._ He's the real reason I'm running, Ms Vale. That man has the Midas touch, and when he advises me, I listen."

"Wow," Vicki’s eyes widened, her interest immediately piqued. "What's this wise man’s name?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Ms Vale," Hill wagged a finger at her like she was cheeky. "We keep things under wraps here. Our consultants don't like their names being flashed around in the press."

"Okay, how about for context," Vicki said slowly, trying to spin him. "You tell me one of his other achievements."

"Well, let's just say..." Hill rolled his eyes out to the side, a sneaky grin sliding onto his papery lips. "John Daggett would still be a millionaire and not a billionaire if it weren't for my boy."

Circe made an angry screeching sound that made Vicki jump as she swung around to stare at her, bewildered.

"Uh oh, Circe didn't like that!" Hill chuckled, while Circe smiled bashfully but still didn't say anything. "Uh, Ms Vale, you wouldn't mind striking what I just said about John from the record, would you?"

"Of course not," Vicki replied quickly. She glanced at Circe, feeling there was something very, _very_ wrong with her. "You have editorial approval, after all," she lied.

* * *

The girl who cut Harley's hair had long, lilac waves falling half-way down her back like a mermaid, the salon's specialty, apparently. Harley immediately passed on the blue and red dip dye the stylist offered, but agreed to a let her bleach her hair a platinum blonde that was almost silver, and cut it 'mermaid style.’ Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. It was an upgrade from the machete-hack job she was currently sporting.

"Your hair has _such_ a great natural wave," the stylist gushed, making Harley roll her eyes impatiently.

Back at the safe house, she stood in front of Samantha’s closet, feeling uninspired as she tried to decide what to wear. According to the Iceberg Lounge’s website, it was ‘disco night’, so Harley settled on a strappy red silk dress with a low-cut top and a fluttery not-too-short skirt that seemed close enough. She applied shiny bronzer and red lip gloss, and with some dangly gold jewelry and clunky silver heels, Harley declared it good enough.

Thank _God,_ Samantha left a full closet behind when she disappeared.

Harley called a taxi to pick her up and spent the short drive mulling over how to play Lucy. If her boss was interested in Harley and the Joker, the whole Janice Porter job—an absurd job to offer them—was likely just a ploy to get them in the club. If Lucy was under instructions to get close to Harley, then Harley would make it that much easier for her. That meant girl talk. 

It was nearly midnight when the taxi arrived at the Iceberg Lounge, the line outside looping around the block twice. Harley told the bouncers she was Peaches Kane, correctly suspecting Lucy and her boss would put her on the guest list if they wanted her to come back.

The club still had its prohibition-era entrance, but instead of nostalgic ragtime tunes bellowing from behind the circular oak door, it was hyperactive synthesizers and tipsy high hats that evening.

Harley pushed open the circular door and looked around the club, her eyebrows rising at the swelling dance floor. It was packed with young bodies dressed in 70s-era glamour, dancing woozily to Donna Summer while a giant disco ball sparkled overhead.

Her eyes swept the room as she entered the crowd and elbowed her way through to the bar, where Ed was pouring out frothy pink drinks from a cocktail shaker, his shoulders rolling to the music, his silver eyeshadow glinting beneath the disco ball.

"Hi," she greeted Ed with a sly smile, leaning over the bar.

"Peaches! You're back!" Ed gasped, his eyes lighting up. "Oh my god, I _love_ your hair," he gushed, throwing a hand over his heart.

"I needed a change," Harley shrugged, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

"Dry gin martini?" Ed offered smugly, already reaching for the gin and a fresh cocktail shaker.

"Do you remember everyone's drink?" Harley asked, making Ed giggle as he bent over the bar toward her, staring into her eyes.

"Only the ones that look like _you_ ," he admitted, a complacent smirk slipping onto his lips. _"Ms Quinn_ ," he added slyly, pushing her drink toward her.

Harley felt a smirk creep onto her lips too, enjoying Ed’s gumption. 

"Are you going to blow my cover?" she asked, sipping her martini.

"Now, where would the fun in _that_ be?" Ed shot back coyly.

" _Harley_?"

Harley turned around to see Lucy standing behind her, dressed in an outrageously glamourous floor-length gown made of silver foil, her dark hair feathered around her face with a generous shellacking of hairspray. 

"Hi Lucy," Harley smiled.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Lucy admitted, leaning close to shout in Harley's ear.

"I needed a night out," Harley explained, making Lucy's eyes widen.

"Oh, uh, great!" she faltered, forcing a grin. "Hey, lemme just grab these drinks and we can go talk."

"Great," Harley simpered, fighting back a smirk as she watched Lucy pretend she wasn’t shocked to see her.

It wasn’t that Lucy was a _bad_ actress. Harley was just a better one, and she could see right through the attempt at friendliness. It made her wonder what else the big boss had instructed Lucy to do. 

_"Miss_ Lucy!" Ed chirped, pushing the fizzy pink drink toward her. "What belongs to you, but other people use it more than you?" He widened his eyes meaningfully at Harley before delivering the punchline with a flourish of his arm. "Your name!"

"Ed, your jokes are terrible!" Lucy crowed.

"I don't think that counts as a joke," Harley observed, allowing Lucy to take her hand and drag her over to the ridiculous birdcage.

Victor was once again standing guard, looking both bored and content as he bobbed his head along to the tisking high-hats. Harley met his eye briefly, remembering what Lucy had said about her boss having a _talk_ with him.

That required closer inspection too.

Lucy flopped down on her preferred magenta couch, beaming as she reached for her cigarettes when Victor cleared his throat. They had some kind of silent argument before Lucy set her cigarettes aside in favor of a vape pen, which she sucked on happily as she watched Harley lower herself onto the couch beside her.

"You look _amazing_ ," Lucy informed her, exhaling a cloud of water vapor that smelled of blueberries.

"Thanks, I needed a change," Harley said again. She sighed sadly and sipped her martini, bracing herself for the _girl talk._

Lucy frowned, looking concerned. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Harley replied miserably. "My boyfriend's a terrorist and an asshole."

"Oh, right," Lucy faltered, bemused and maybe a little suspicious. "So you two are still having... problems?"

"I'm not the type to talk about my feelings, Lucy," Harley said drily, backing up a step so she wasn't laying it on too thick. "I just had to get out of the house."

"D'you mind if I ask what he did? I mean, I don't really expect an answer, but if you want to tell me, you can," Lucy plastered on an empathetic _just-between-us-girls_ smile, one Harley had used to manipulate people before.

 _Touché, Lucy,_ she thought.

Harley chewed her bottom lip and stared down at her clunky silver shoes, the anger she felt earlier bubbling to the surface. _Use it,_ she told herself.

"He lied to me," she said bitterly, the DJ changing the track in quite a timely fashion to Gloria Gaynor's _'I Will Survive'._ And when she looked up at Lucy, she could see she was listening intently so she could faithfully report back to her boss later.

"You don't have to answer this," Lucy said apprehensively. "But he doesn't like... _hurt_ you, does he?"

Harley's mouth twitched up on one side. "Do you think he'd still have his _balls_ if he did?"

Lucy threw her head back and laughed. Then she grinned, shaking her head. "It's crazy thinkin' about the Joker this way."

"What way?" Harley asked, curious.

"You know... _human,_ " Lucy shrugged, taking a thoughtful drag off her Juul. "Like, how does that even work between you two? How do you guys have a relationship when you're both so... ya know, _you_."

There it was again—that interest in their _relationship_ and how it worked. Harley decided to give Lucy an honest answer. A peek behind the curtain as she and her boss would see it.

"We're just like anyone else. We trust each other, we want the same things, we fight sometimes and then we have great makeup sex," Harley explained, feeling a pang of genuine sadness.

She must not have hidden it very well because Lucy made a compassionate sound and put a hand on Harley's arm.

"Hey, let's go dance!" she suggested, opening her clutch and pulling out her little vial of Blue Orchid. She scooped a small bump up and offered it to Harley, who shook her head.

"I didn't like the way it made me feel," she said frankly. "Like I wasn't myself."

"A lotta people like it for that reason," Lucy admitted, sniffing up the bump and closing her eyes as the high washed over her. When she opened her eyes, her pupils were dilated, and she offered Harley a dreamy smile. "I've always been jealous of how _you_ you are, ya know? You _never_ question yourself. You're totally comfortable being who you are, even if you are a horrible bitch."

Harley chuckled affectionately, appreciating the sentiment. She stood and grabbed Lucy’s hand, pulling her to her feet and walking her out to the dance floor. They joined a group of socialites and stockbrokers there, all of them high as kites and swooning along to the music.

At some point, Mario joined them, offering Lucy bumps of BO off the back of his hand and watching over her lovingly. By all appearances, Lucy was in charge, but there was no doubt having a boyfriend with the last name Falcone gave her legitimacy. 

Ed arrived at intervals with more drinks and 'jokes' that made Lucy and Mario howl with laughter while Harley squinted at him, trying to figure out his angle. The drinks kept flowing, but Harley slopped most of hers out of the glass and onto the floor, wanting to be sober as she spoke to VIPs, searching for information. None of it was especially revealing, and Lucy was rapidly getting too fucked to carry on a conversation.

Then finally, something interesting happened. Harley was getting Mario's sob story about how his father never believed in him like he did his sister —a wise judgment, in Harley's view. Then the crystal curtains covering the old kitchen doors parted, and Alberto jumped to his feet to greet a small contingent of men.

Harley's eyebrows rose as she watched Hamilton Hill arrive through the back entrance with an entourage in tow, including Arthur Reeves and Thomas Elliot.

Alberto and Hill immediately started talking with their heads together, Hill gesturing wildly and looking pleased with himself while Alberto nodded along. Reeves and Elliot were both visibly drunk despite Elliot supposedly being in recovery for alcoholism. It seemed he'd fallen off that particular wagon. When Ed put a tumbler of scotch in his hand, Eliott immediately downed it, rocking back on his heels as he spoke to Reeves, his face slack with booze.

Harley rose to her feet, leaving Mario and Lucy to coo at one another lovingly as she strode up to Reeves and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to face her, smirking as his eyes rolled over her. Not because he recognized her, but because a pretty woman had approached him. _Poor Mrs Reeves_ , Harley thought, cocking her head to the side and staring at him, waiting for the pieces to click into place for him. 

And when they finally did… 

"Oh… my _God_ ," Reeves laughed incredulously, looking her over again. “God, you look amazing.”

“Thanks,” Harley said dismissively, her eyes darting to Elliot. "Hey, Tommy," she greeted him, receiving a sloppy wave in return.

Behind Elliot, Harley saw Lucy trying to sober up as she offered Hill a big beaming smile. She let him kiss her on both cheeks, then he laughed boorishly, wagging a finger in her face. They were obviously very familiar with each other.

"What are you doing here?" Reeves asked Harley, wide-eyed and drunk. "Did I say you look fucking _amazing_?"

"You mentioned it," Harley said drily, then let a nice, pretty smile slide onto her face as she sidled up to him, getting closer than she usually would. "What are _you_ doing here?" she asked coyly.

Reeves stared down at her, transfixed like an animal trapped beneath a cobra's stare.

"Tommy donated to Hill's campaign," he explained distractedly, still staring at Harley as he gestured to Elliot, who was sniffing BO off the back of his phone before grabbing another drink off the tray Ed was offering around.

Ed caught Harley's eye, and they shared a look she wasn't sure how to quantify aside from... _understanding_.

"Hill looks friendly with Miss Lucy," Harley observed, nodding in Lucy's direction. She ran her hand down Reeves' arm, giving him her full attention. “Do you guys come here often?" 

Reeves’ mouth twitched into a crooked grin, taking the flirting in stride and letting it puff up his ego.

"You know, I was gonna ask you out again," he said smugly. "I've got a friend who's dying to meet you."

"Oh, really?" Harley raised an eyebrow, realizing this meant Reeves had been _chatting_ about her. That wasn’t good. Not at all. "Where's your friend tonight?"

"He's a busy guy," Reeves replied, his eyes following the low neckline of her dress to where it dipped between her small breasts. 

Harley imagined snapping the stem off her martini glass and gouging out his eyes.

Once you realized how easy it was to pop an eyeball out, it was something you thought about—a lot. 

She smiled softly instead. "And why does your friend want to meet me?"

"Because you're _amazing_ ," Reeves laughed, making a face like it was obvious. 

"So you're pimping me out for autographs now, is that it?" Harley asked, narrowing her eyes.

Reeves licked his lips, getting nervous as he glanced back at Elliot to make sure he wasn't listening.

"It's not just you," he leaned toward her, his breath stinking of whiskey. "He wants to meet Mr J too."

Harley ground her teeth, suspicion roiling inside her like a cyclone.

"Why?" she demanded.

"He has a job for you," Reeves replied obediently, his eyes wide.

"What kind of job would a friend of _yours_ have for _us_?" Harley scoffed.

"He's one of the top consultants at Hill's firm," Reeves scrambled to explain. "Sometimes the top tier stuff needs a um... out of house touch if you know what I mean."

"Are you serious?" Harley laughed at the sheer _stupidity_ of what he was suggesting. "You have a friend who wants us to ‘freelance’ for a Wall Street _consulting_ firm? Does your friend have a death wish, Reeves? Do _you_?”

"Listen, if the money's good enough, they'll take on any client," Reeves rushed to explain. He glanced at Hill, who was still talking animatedly with Alberto and Lucy. “Authoritarian regimes, warlords, terrorist states, anything so long as the money's right. Roman spent most of last year in China and Saudi Arabia."

Harley frowned, turning this information over in her head. She took a quick look at Hill and remembered his espousing of capitalism at the Tobacconist's Club. There was something disgustingly dishonest about packaging villainous work in a suit and tie and giving it an office on Wall Street when it was no less bloody than the work of mercenaries.

It was exactly like the mysterious boss who'd managed to make the city look clean even though organized crime was running as fluidly as ever.

It seemed Hamilton Hill, prospective Mayor of Gotham, deserved more of Harley's attention than she'd realized. And with Reeves as his loyal lapdog, that meant there was reason to be suspicious about him too. 

Harley ground her teeth as she eyeballed Reeves, wondering if this slimy country club fucker had managed to mislead her… 

Perhaps his Wall Street friend would be able to offer some insight.

"Roman?" Harley asked warily.

"Roman Sionis," Reeves confirmed. "I went to prep school with him. Just meet him, see what he has to say, okay?"

Harley narrowed her eyes, thinking back over her short friendship with Reeves and the many ways it could be a setup. Even if it wasn’t and Hill was clean, it was clear he hadn’t taken her threat of a painful death seriously, a _very_ silly mistake on his part.

"Set it up," she agreed coldly, deciding she needed more information before she could make a call.

"Have I said how fucking beautiful you are?" Reeves grinned, but Harley just made a face and walked away, not bothering to say goodbye to Lucy or anyone else.

She ran into Ed on her way out the front door.

"Leaving so soon?" he pouted, popping his hip as he balanced a tray of drinks. "We didn't even get a chance to practice our dance moves!”

"See you later, Ed," Harley replied drily.

"Bye, Harley," he smirked after her. "Stay sassy."

Harley hailed a cab, which dropped her off outside Samantha's apartment building, and as she climbed the stairs, she turned over the idea that Hamilton Hill could be the big boss. Was it possible that by running for Mayor, he was tying it all up with a nice little bow? Putting himself in charge of Gotham legitimately, democratically, when he already ran things from behind the scenes? 

When she reached the safe house's front door, she stopped short, her face darkening as she realized the television and a light were on inside. 

But she could do with a fight.

Harley unlocked the front door with her key, bracing herself before she kicked it open, almost praying someone would attack her.

But there were no gunshots, just the sound of Hamilton Hill's voice campaigning from the television in the living room and cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.

The Joker was hovering near the window, smoking as he always was while Crane sat in an armchair in front of the TV, glaring at her as he always was.

"By all means," Harley sneered, throwing the door shut behind her. "Make yourselves at home."

* * *

Crane was left to his own devices at the warehouse all day, most of which was spent sulking over his lack of independence while he stared at a whiteboard covered in formulas written in his untidy scrawl. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from his recent work—it was impossible to synthesize a new fear compound from Blue Orchid. He needed the big boss’s poppy supplier, and he needed them soon.

The Joker returned sometime after midnight, stinking of cigarettes after another day attempting to bleed information out of his traitorous henchmen. This strategy had officially reached its limit if the foul mood he was in was any indication.

It wasn’t just the ‘sniffing around’ Gotham's underbelly that had reached a dead-end—their search for the big boss via Blue Orchid had hit a wall too, and Crane wasn’t sure where that left _him_. 

"Saddle up, Jonny," the Joker announced gruffly. He snatched a pack of Marlboro Reds from a carton on the makeshift coffee table, then turned and loped back out into the hall, Crane reluctantly following with his teeth gritted.

"Where are we going?" Crane demanded once they were in the station wagon. He was behind the wheel and the Joker was slumped in the passenger seat, a long flame leaping from a silver-plated zippo. It looked like he'd recently topped up with lighter fluid. _Finally_. Watching him fight with the stupid thing had been driving Crane mad all week. 

"Otisberg," the Joker muttered, raking his hair off his face as he exhaled a stream of acrid-smelling smoke.

"What's in Otisburg?" Crane asked warily.

" _Harley_ is," the Joker shot back without hesitating.

"You agreed to leave her out of this," Crane spat, to which the Joker just scoffed impatiently.

" _Harley_ is at the _Iceberg_ Lounge tonight," he explained in a sinister sing-song. "Ya think _maybe_ she might hear something helpful there? _Huh?_ "

Crane's shoulders tensed, his mouth hardening into a thin line as he reluctantly accepted that the Joker was right _again_.

He’d already accepted he wouldn’t be able to avoid Harleen anymore, and he'd decided it would be poetic to use her to track down the big boss and his poppy supplier. Then when she was no longer useful to him, Crane would make sure she was locked up in Arkham, forced to engage in _socialization_ at her old mentor Joan Leland’s behest. 

But first, he needed to find the big boss.

The Joker seemed to take Crane’s silence as acquiescence. He slouched down in his seat, turning his attention to the glovebox, which he stared at like he was trying to see through it. The silence stretched on for the entirety of the drive, right up until they reached the exit for Otsiberg.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crane mused as he pulled off the freeway. “All of this secrecy is odd for Gotham. This city traditionally takes pride in how out in the open its corruption is.”

The Joker didn't say anything.

“Why does the big boss hide behind a veneer of legality?” Crane continued, mostly talking to himself. “He’s well-funded, so why go to the trouble to hide when he could simply pay off the people who get in his way.”

Again, the Joker didn’t respond. 

“Perhaps there’s a phobia or some other pathology,” Crane frowned at the dark road ahead. “Something that could be used against them.”

The Joker snorted derisively. "You ever heard of _projection,_ Jonny?"

Crane bristled, indignant that the Joker would use the language of psychology to insult him.

 _"I'm_ willin’ to bet you got teased as a kid, didn't ya, _Jonny_ ," the Joker spat, still staring at the dashboard. "Bet they called ya _scarecrow_ for being such a scrawny little pipsqueak, huh? So you _reclaimed_ it. You turned it around."

Crane ground his teeth, knowing if he reacted, it would only get worse.

"I'm thinkin' it was rough at school, maybe it was rough at home too, huh? Mean daddy get his belt out? Was he like, a macho man disappointed in his skinny dandy boy kid? Or was it mommy, needing you to be the _big_ man when you couldn't even look after yourself?"

Crane's hands tightened on the steering wheel, clenching his jaw until it began to ache. _Ignore him,_ he told himself. _Just like you used to ignore them._

"See, that's the difference between you and Harley, Crane," the Joker sneered, switching from condescending to outright hostile, almost _angry_ . "She didn't have parents to treat her like shit. She grew up on her own, lookin’ out for herself. Came home to find daddy dead on the couch with a needle in his arm when she was a sweet little six-year-old. But _she_ didn't let that turn her into a nervous wreck. Oh _no_ , she picked herself right up and went back to school the next day."

"Because she's a psychopath who doesn't feel empathy or love," Crane bit back, but the Joker just chuckled indulgently.

 _"Labels_ , Crane. Who needs em'," he drawled, a nasty smile sneaking onto his lips. "And that's the real difference between you. _Harley_ is strong, and you... you're fuckin’ _weak,_ Crane."

The accusation hung in the air, belittling and cruel. But the Joker wasn't done.

"And _that_ 's why you hate her," he continued blithely. "Because she made you think you were worth her time when you _never_ were. That's why she left you in Arkham, cause she didn't give a shit about you, and it _eats_ you up that you thought someone like _her_ looked up to someone like _you_ , only for her to drop ya like a hot potato when she got what she wanted, making you realize just how _weak_ you are."

"Stop it," Crane snapped roughly.

"I won't even get _into_ the fact that Harley could kick your ass til’ there's nothin' left of you," the Joker added hotly. "Cause you're _still_ just a scrawny little pipsqueak under all that brainy bullshit. If I were you, Crane, I wouldn't get on her bad side. You got _no_ idea what she's capable of. Turn left here."

Shaken and blinking rapidly, Crane followed the Joker’s grunted directions until they arrived at an apartment complex in the nice, middle-class part of Otisberg. He parked on the street, reluctant to get out on this well-manicured street looking scruffy and unwashed, his hair too long and beard growing back, his clothes too big. But his only other option was sitting in the car, waiting impotently. So Crane got out and followed the Joker into the building, glowering at his back in silence.

They stopped outside a unit on the second floor, and the Joker produced a set of keys from his pocket. Crane watched warily as he let them into the apartment and flicked on the lights, both of them standing out starkly against the pretty decor. The apartment had a distinctly lived-in feel, and it even smelled feminine, like hairspray or shampoo. Crane realized it must have been one of their safe houses, an idea that inspired an awful flare of _jealousy_ in him. That these two psychopaths had a nice apartment to call home while he’d been sleeping on the floor of an old warehouse he was too scared to leave alone.

Acting as if he was utterly indifferent to Crane's presence, the Joker kicked off his shoes and strode into the living room, grabbing the remote off the couch and turning on the television. He flipped through channels until he found GCN where Hamilton Hill, the candidate for Mayor, was being interviewed by Mike Engel, enthusiastically describing his plans for the city.

The Joker fell on the couch, his eyes trained on Hill's interview as he ran his tongue along the seams of the scars inside his mouth, ignoring Crane.

Still feeling sick with contempt, Crane lowered himself into an armchair and pushed his hair off his clammy forehead. He tried to focus on the news, staring at the screen without blinking as Hill discussed the economy and his plans to increase building permits and subsidies. That meant decreasing funding for programs like soup kitchens and free clinics and shelters for homeless youths, but with a paycheck in their pockets, the people who needed those programs would be free to work and run their own lives. All of this, Hill said, would _Make Gotham Great Again._

Engel didn't look overly impressed, but when Hill offered him a red cap with his slogan abbreviated on it—MGGA—he wore it anyway, looking uneasy.

The Joker got up abruptly and walked to the window adjacent to the front door, which looked out on the street where they'd parked. He lit a cigarette but didn't open the window, instead opting to turn off the hallway light as he smoked and peered out at the street from behind the curtain.

Crane slumped down in the armchair, using the opportunity of the Joker not looking to scrub his hands over his face.

A key scratched in the lock, and Crane looked up in time to see the door fly open as Harleen stepped over the threshold, her eyes blazing.

"By all means," she sneered, throwing the door shut behind her. "Make yourselves at home."

One of Crane's eyebrows arched at the sight of her. She looked nothing like the ambitious, professional academic who kept her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and nothing like the drowned rat who'd shown up at the warehouse only the night before. Her hair was now a glamorous silvery blonde, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and she wore a red silk dress that showed off long legs and a slender, gracefully curved physique. After years of only seeing her in baggy slacks and shirts buttoned up to her throat, it was bizarre to discover that she was so… _female_ beneath it. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Harleen demanded, striding into the kitchen and throwing her bag on the counter. She grabbed a bottle of red wine and stepped out of her silver heels, kicking them away.

The Joker rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath like he was preparing himself for something stressful. He dropped the butt of his cigarette on the hardwood floor and crushed it with his socked heel, then strolled into the kitchen, leaning against the fridge to watch Harleen pour a glass of wine and take a few indulgent swallows before she turned her ferocious glare on him.

Crane watched them interact, finding the tension between them _immensely_ compelling.

"Well?" she spat impatiently, bracing her hip against the counter.

"Calm down, _cupcake_ ," the Joker sneered, his tongue snaking out to swipe over his bottom lip. "We’re just checking in.”

“Just checking in?” Harleen seethed.

"It seems your drug-addled minions don’t have any further information to be useful to us," Crane drawled, shooting the Joker a withering look.

“Minions?” Harleen’s eyes widened as understanding crept into her expression _. “That’s_ why you were with those idiots at Marty’s?” Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked on the verge of launching into a tirade. 

“Harleen,” Crane interjected flatly, drawing her irate stare. “I believe it is time for us to set our differences aside and collaborate.”

 _“Collaborate_ ?” Harleen swiveled around to face Crane squarely. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Jonathan?”

“I take it you didn’t learn anything at the Iceberg Lounge tonight?” he shot back coldly. 

"No," she snapped, glancing at the TV where Hill was still making his pitch to Mike Engal. "But he was there." Her eyes darted to the Joker. "And he was awfully cozy with Lucy and Alberto."

The Joker looked between Harleen and the television a few times, his brow furrowing. 

“ _That_ guy?” he grunted, unconvinced. 

“He’s a Wall Street prick,” Harleen explained, suddenly sounding uneasy instead of angry. “I’ve been meeting with his campaign manager, Arthur Reeves.”

“I wasn’t aware you had political aspirations, Harleen,” Crane observed drily, his lips twitching into a small, mean smile. “Then again… I didn’t see clown terrorist on the cards either.”

“Go _fuck_ yourself, Jonathan,” Harleen snapped brusquely, turning back to the Joker. “Reeves says Hill’s consulting firm works with terrorists and dictators, but they do it all legally. So they make it _look_ clean even though it’s as dirty as you can get.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Who does that sound like?”

The Joker narrowed his eyes to squint at her. "You think… _Hill's_ the big boss?"

"Maybe," Harleen sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know. When I met him, I just thought he was a rich asshole, but… maybe.” 

“ _Maybe,_ huh?” the Joker scoffed, looking unimpressed.

"There's more," Harleen glared at him. "Reeves says one of the consultants at Hill's firm wants to meet with us about a job _._ "

“Fascinating how in demand you both are at the moment,” Crane pointed out drolly.

" _Reeves_ ," the Joker sneered, ignoring Crane. “That’d be the fellah you were out with the other night?" 

“Yes,” Harleen’s eyes narrowed like she thought he was accusing her of something.

“Mm-hm,” the Joker ran his tongue over his teeth, glowering at her. “But _you_ didn’t suspect his boss till’ tonight, _right?_ ” 

“What are you getting at, J?” Harleen snapped, looking flustered.

“How about while you’ve been sippin’ cocktails with your good pal Reeves _, he’s_ been keeping tabs on you for the big boss,” the Joker growled quietly. “Ya think about that?” 

Harleen's lips parted in surprise. She looked _hurt—as_ if the accusation that she’d been outmaneuvered was the worst the Joker could lob at her. She swallowed thickly and squared her shoulders, recalibrating.

“If Hill is the big boss and Reeves is a plant, we need to meet this Sionis guy and figure out his angle,” she said hotly. "Now get the fuck out, I need to sleep."

"No can do," the Joker shot back snidely, waving an arm at the front door. "You've got a tail. They're followin' you, and they're gonna be out there waiting to see what kinda move you make. _Including_ who comes in and out of this place."

Harleen groaned miserably and threw her arms up over her head, her hands sinking into her platinum hair as she buried her face in her arms.

"Fine," she said raggedly, her arms falling by her sides. 

She shot the Joker another withering look before she stomped out of the kitchen, heading for a door down the hall.

To Crane's surprise, the Joker loped after her, grabbing her wrist just as she threw her bedroom door open. She turned around to glare up at him and tried to wrench her arm away, but he didn't let her go. Then the Joker said something quietly, something Crane couldn't hear across the room.

"Improvise!" she snapped, shaking him off before she slammed the door in his face.

The Joker stood there, staring at the closed door while Crane watched, fascinated. Then he spun around and stomped down the hallway to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him, the shower squealing on a few moments later.

Crane sighed happily, relishing the Joker being taken down a few pegs by Harleen. Relishing the fact that the only person the Joker seemed to care about was rejecting him. Crane turned off the television and laid down on the couch with a pillow embroidered with _‘Its Happy Hour Somewhere’_ under his head, smiling as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Vicki spent the evening researching until long after her colleagues had gone home and the cleaners came to vacuum. Sequestered in her office, she listened back to her interview with Hill and went over his donor list with a fine-tooth comb, searching for clues as to explain his connection to Harley Quinn.

But Vicki’s questions about Harley were bleeding into new questions her interview with Hill raised. Circe the publicist, who didn’t speak and hardly blinked. Who was she, and more importantly, what was _wrong_ with her? Then there was Hill’s ‘top earner’, the one he thought of as a son who advised him to run for Mayor and turned John Daggett into a billionaire. Who was this influential and mysterious person? And why was John Daggett so invested in getting Hill elected Mayor?

All of it set off Vicki’s sense for a story like a goddamn fire alarm before you even added Harley Quinn to the pot.

There was a notable lack of information about Hill Consulting available online—an _intentional_ lack of information, no doubt—. Luckily, the Globe kept sixty-plus years of print clippings on file.

It was well past midnight when Vicki let herself into the archives, even though _technically_ she wasn’t supposed to be there without an archivist present. After trolling through three years of “Hill Consulting” mentions in the business pages, she came across a syndicated article by Lois Lane from the Metropolis Daily Planet. It was an expose alleging Hill’s firm encouraged authoritarianism in their work with dictators across the planet. Vicki’s mouth nearly fell open as she read Lane’s reporting, which was full of anonymous sourcing, but so detailed, any sane person could see it was true. But for some reason, the Daily Planet had been forced to retract the article and take it down, and it only existed in print clippings now.

Vicki hunted down Lois Lane’s contact information and tapped out a quick email on her phone. Then she sat back in her chair, her eyebrows knitting together as she considered the possibility that Harley was going to expose Hill Consulting as the evil, cozy-with-dictators monsters they were. Just like the Joker had exposed Crowne and Kane and Dumas for their misdeeds during the Thanksgiving Riots.

But it didn’t feel like the right answer.

So she turned to Daggett Industries, finding plenty of information to suggest Daggett was no more or less transparent than any other major corporation. Five years earlier, the company went public after a period of booming growth, turning John Daggett into a billionaire overnight and making Daggett Industries one of the most powerful corporations in the world. An interview with Forbes—in which the writer described Daggett as _“unpretentious and aggressively frank”—_ suggested their profit margins were a result of more lucrative defense contracts with the military, which itself suggested some kind of external consulting was at play.

Vicki inferred this meant Hill’s wunderkind consultant was behind all of it.

Her eyes started to sting as the hours dragged on, her belief that there was a story _begging_ to be told helping her push through. Then she found it—a black and white photo from five years earlier. Daggett was shaking hands with a striking-looking man with high cheekbones and large, deep-set eyes. They were surrounded by clapping shareholders, celebrating Daggett Industries going public with luminously-valued shares, turning Daggett personally into a billionaire.

Vicki squinted at the photo on the archive screen, zooming in on the caption beneath it, which read: _John Daggett, CEO, Daggett Industries. Roman Sionis, Senior Manager, Hill Consulting.  
_

 _Roman_ . Vicki sat back and chewed on her bottom lip. She was sure she’d heard that unusual name before. Had Hill said it? Had Arthur Reeves? Had _Bruce_?

Then her phone started to ring, making Vicki jump after sitting in silence for so long. She frowned at the screen, seeing it was an out of state number.

“Hello?” she answered warily.

“Hi, is that Vicki Vale?” A warm but authoritative voice asked. “At the Gotham Globe?”

“Yes,” Vicki confirmed, sitting up straight.

“This is Lois Lane from the Metropolis Daily Planet. I hope I’m not waking you up…”

“Oh, that’s okay, I'm working,” Vicki scrabbled for a pen and paper to make notes.

“I figured if you’re anything like me, you might be up,” Lane said drily. “I know this story kept me awake at night.”

“It’s pretty shocking,” Vicki agreed eagerly. “But what happened? Why was it retracted?”

“That’s why I’m calling, Ms Vale,” Lane sighed, sounding frustrated. “To advise that you be very careful with this story.”

“Be _careful_ ?” Vicki’s eyes widened.

“Hill sued me for libel as soon as we went to print,” Lane explained bitterly. “I had shittons of deep background, and thirty anonymous sources, all of whom were too terrified to come forward even without those iron-clad NDAs they make everyone sign. My editor stood by me, but we went through six months of litigation, during which I wasn’t even allowed to write. In the end, we settled, but it got nasty and _personal_ , Ms Vale.”

“Shit,” Vicki ran a hand over her hair. “That sounds incredibly aggressive.”

“Oh, it was,” Lane agreed. “They wanted to make an example out of me. I know Hill’s running for Mayor down in Gotham, and people deserve to know the truth about him but… you need to watch your back on this one, Ms Vale. I’ve met other reporters who’ve investigated Hill and ended up in worse positions than I did.”

“I’m not actually investigating him,” Vicki admitted. “I’m interviewing him for the Globe Magazine.”

“He’s a dick,” Lane scoffed. “But he’s nothing compared to some of the men who work for him.”

Vicki eyed the picture of Daggett and Sionis shaking hands, her mind racing.

“Ms Lane... did you ever come across Roman Sionis when you were investigating Hill?”

“Oh, yes,” Lane replied darkly. “He’s one of the worst ones there. He has a lot of friends in Riyadh and Beijing if you know what I mean. One of my sources described him as Hill’s golden boy, and in my book that puts him in American Psycho territory.”

“Do you know if he was the consultant for Daggett Industries on those defense contracts?” Vicki asked, zooming in on Roman Sionis’s face.

“I don’t know anything about Daggett,” Lane admitted. “I just know these assholes need to go down, but it won’t be easy.”

“Thank you for letting me know, Lois,” Vicki sighed. “But I don’t think I can ignore this.”

“Be careful, Vicki,” Lois warned her. “These people are capable of anything.”

* * *

**A/N: A little Lois Lane cameo there ;)**

**So now we’ve reached this divergent place as we begin the second act where Vicki knows more than Harley— you guys know WAY more than Harley and there are like a million threads to pull together.**

**Hill's firm is inspired by the McKinsey Institute, but obviously dramatized. Read about them on the NYTimes[here](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/15/world/asia/mckinsey-china-russia.html). **

**PSA 1 - I gave the Harlequin a minor faced lift for adverbs, run-on sentences, and I gave the smut a little more** **_pizzazz_ too** **. Nothing’s fundamentally changed except for the hotel scene in Chapter 31 when they’re waiting for Vicki. I expanded it and added some character development. It’s about three-quarters of the way down the page and starts with “is this the uh, making it up to me?” Lol.**

**Next: Harley and the Joker meet Roman about a job, and Vicki continues to investigate Hamilton Hill. and Daggett Industries.**

**Please please review!** **xo**


	7. Chapter 7

**Previously: Harley has started to suspect Hamilton Hill is tied to the big boss. Arthur Reeves sets up a meeting between his prep-school buddy Roman Sionis and Harley and the Joker, who are not currently on the best of terms.  
**

_Theme: David Bowie - ‘D.J.’ ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/1g7NUaFstaB84jLTmOwIor?si=gTDX3vCXSOiQ-H0QSiAUdA)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/MRRmU_pOXnk)) _

* * *

The Pantomime

07.

* * *

Harley barely slept, her mind bouncing between her fight with the Joker, their imminent meeting with Reeves’ Wall Street friend, and the fact that she had the big boss’s men stalking her, maybe even waiting outside her front door that very minute to see what kind of move she would make.

It reminded her again of what Sly told her, reinforcing her gut feeling that there was something personal about all of this, though she couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it _meant_. Being followed and having questions asked about her by some mysterious mob boss? It left her feeling uneasy and a little bit helpless, which in turn made her more determined to take control of the situation. Although she wasn’t quite sure how she would go about doing that yet. 

She eventually found sleep, and when she woke up the next afternoon, exhausted and unrested, she was relieved to find the Joker and Crane were gone.

The Joker’s accusation that she’d been out-smarted by Reeves haunted her. She replayed every moment she’d spent in Arthur Reeves’ company, searching for holes in his story or things she may have missed. It made her question herself and her instincts, which she’d foolishly believed were never wrong. If she couldn’t trust her instincts, what did she even have left? If Reeves was a plant and she’d fallen for his bullshit hook, line, and sinker, that meant the big boss had already outmaneuvered her. It meant she’d lost the first battle in what was beginning to feel like a war. 

Harley was not accustomed to losing, and feeling helpless or questioning herself was even harder to accept. She _needed_ to take back control. She _needed_ to find the big boss. 

She spent the remainder of the day working out and cleaning Samantha’s apartment to distract herself, including reorganizing the closet, which led to the discovery of a fantastic pair of flat thigh-high leather boots that looked just like a pair she’d lost track of.

Eventually, Harley plucked up the courage to go for a run, but once outside, she was dismayed to find a BMW waiting on the other side of the street. There were two men in the front seat watching her, and Harley couldn’t tell if they were unabashedly brazen or just unfathomably incompetent. 

When it was time to get ready, she found herself standing in front of Samantha’s closet again, staring blindly at the dresses hanging there. Eventually, she grabbed the red dress she’d worn the night before, pairing it with black stilettos that would make an adequate weapon if things went sideways.

Once she was dressed, she examined her pale face in the mirror above Samantha’s vanity, and grabbed a brown paper bag with three pots of greasepaint inside. Painting her face was second nature to her now, one that didn’t require a mirror. It was something she usually enjoyed because it meant _action_ was on the horizon instead of more waiting or negotiating or investigating or sneaking. But it meant none of those things this time, leaving Harley feeling pinched and depressed. 

Frost texted her when he was outside, and after hesitating for too long, Harley grabbed the paper bag of paint and headed out. She and the Joker would need to present a united front no matter what was going on with them. With too many people interested in their relationship, it was dangerous for there to be any daylight between them. 

She kept her head down as she jogged down the front steps where Frost was waiting with the shiny black town car. Harley ducked into the backseat, her heart sinking when she found it empty. 

“The boss is gonna meet us uptown,” Frost explained as Harley flopped into the seat and pulled her door shut, looking miserable and sulky, she was sure.

“Great,” she said drily, folding her arms and looking out the window, her whole body feeling clenched. 

Frost pulled away from the curb, and Harley could feel him looking at her in the rearview mirror.

“Can I help you with something?” she snapped irritably. 

“We gotta tail, doc,” he explained quietly, seriously. “You want me to shake em’?”

Harley sighed and ran her hand over her face, inadvertently dragging black greasepaint over her temple and into her hairline. “What’s the point?”

They got off the freeway Uptown and headed south, eventually coming to a stop at the corner of Robinson Park. No sooner had the car rolled to a stop, the backdoor flew open, and the Joker folded his long body inside, a cigarette pinched between his lips. Frost took off before the car door was even closed, and an awkward silence settled between the three of them. 

Harley glanced at the Joker when he turned to flick the butt of his cigarette out the window. His face wasn’t painted, and he was still wearing the black suit she’d seen him in for days. She shoved the brown bag across the seat, not looking at him as he fished through it and set about applying his warpaint in silence. 

That was how the whole drive went. Their awkward silence, the BMW creeping along behind them, Harley sulking while the Joker fidgeted and smoked. He wasn’t even bothering to be a dick to her, which was assuredly worse. It occurred to Harley that they should have compared notes or had some kind of conversation to prepare themselves, but she couldn’t bring herself to, not knowing what kind of response she would get. 

Frost pulled the town car into the alley behind the Tobacconist’s, Club, where a butler wearing a coat and tails was waiting at the backdoor. Harley took a deep breath to clear her head, trying to push away her depressed mood so she could concentrate. She needed to observe, to collect data, to understand where all these people fell into place. 

The Joker climbed out of the car in his usual ungraceful fashion, slamming the door and catching Harley’s eye as he loped around the hood to stand beside her. 

“Good evening,” the butler greeted them with a nod, unphased that he had the Joker and Harley Quinn in front of him, both obviously in terrible moods which should have scared the shit out of him. “This way, please,” he added mildly, pushing the back door open and gesturing for them to enter. 

Suspicion prickled at the back of Harley’s neck as she stepped into the club, finding herself in a mahogany-paneled hallway with a black and white tiled floor and crystal sconces emanating a warm glow. Something in her gut twisted uneasily, warning her to be careful. But then the Joker pushed past her, forcing her to speed walk behind him to keep up. 

There was an elevator at the end of the dimly lit hallway, the only apparent exit at this otherwise dead end. The Joker slammed his fist against the call button, his jaw twitching and shoulders rolling, the tension making him eager to do something brash and chaotic. 

Harley stepped into the lift after him, then promptly turned around so she wouldn’t have to look at him as the elevator began to lower. She glanced at the keypad, which only had one button labeled “Vanderbilt Bar”, and beside that, a keyhole without a label. Harley squinted at it for a moment, wondering what floor that keyhole would take them too, and what they would find there. 

But then the elevator came to a stop, and the doors parted, and Harley’s curiosity over unlabelled keyholes vanished. 

The Vanderbilt Bar was a private room with the same aesthetic as the rest of the Tobacconist's Club; rich wood paneling, mosaic-tiled floors, glittering sconces, and buttery brown leather furnishings. There was a small but fully stocked bar across from the elevator, with two stools in front of it. Perched on one of the stools was a stunning blonde woman wearing a lavender mini dress, a matching beret resting jauntily on her sleek 1960s-style bob.

Behind the bar stood an odd-looking but attractive man, with large, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, his curly black hair cut short on the sides and floppy on top. He wore a white polo shirt and khakis, and he was pouring top-shelf gin into a cocktail shaker. They both looked like old-fashioned caricatures of country club elitism, frozen in time. 

“Oh, wow, hey,” the odd-looking man greeted them with a smile. “I’m so happy you guys made it.”

Harley immediately looked up at the Joker, who had turned to look down at her, their painted faces unmoving as they silently agreed this was really… _weird._

“Come on in, don’t be scared,” the man encouraged affably. “I’m Roman,” he added, laying a hand over his heart before he gestured to the blonde wearing a beret. “And this is my fiance, Circe.”

Circe waggled her fingers at them, beaming silently. 

Harley looked between Roman and Circe, every instinct she possessed telling her to be on her guard no matter how harmless they looked. But it seemed her instincts might not have been as good as she’d believed them to be, so she hesitated, frozen with indecision until the Joker gave her a gentle (for him) push to get her moving out of the elevator.

“Can I get you a drink?” Roman asked, turning his affable smile on the Joker and pointing a finger at him. “Let me guess,” he grabbed a bottle of brown liquor off the shelf and held it up. “You’re a bourbon guy.” 

The Joker didn’t say anything, but Harley could feel his incessant fidgeting had stopped. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was glowering at Roman, his entire body coiled tight like a cobra ready to strike if given half an opening. She had been on the receiving end of that glare and knew just how hard it was to ignore, but Roman seemed unfazed. 

“How about you?” Roman asked Harley, stirring the contents of the cocktail shaker. “Circe loves a good martini. Extra dry, right, honey?” 

Circed beamed lovingly at Roman but didn’t say anything, and Harley ground her teeth, thinking if noonr ever offered her a dry martini ever again, it would be too soon. 

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, savoring the familiar taste of greasepaint before she walked up to the bar. She narrowed her eyes at Roman, simply observing him, trying to decide if this nice-guy schtick was naivety or a performance. He smiled back at her patiently and poured the contents of the cocktail shaker into three crystal coup glasses, then pushed one toward her.

“So,” he said, sipping his drink while Harley ignored hers, still staring at him intently. “What do I call you? Dr Quinzel? Ms Quinn? Harley?”

“I don’t care what you call me,” Harley replied, her voice low and steady. 

“Harley it is,” Roman offered her a more subdued grin, then looked at the Joker, who had slithered up behind her. “I hear Arthur calls you Mr J,” Roman folded his arms over his chest. They were lean and well-toned, lightly tanned like he’d been on vacation recently. “Do you mind if I call you that or…” 

The Joker laid his hand on the small of Harley’s back, his thumb tapping against her spine firmly and rhythmically like a metronome, an outlet for the restless energy coursing through him. He was having a hard time reading these strange people too, Harley realized.

“Alright then, I guess we should get down to business,” Roman clapped his hands together, smiling at Harley. “Arthur says he told you about my work?” 

“Reeves,” Harley hummed after a beat, turning to look at Circe, who was still smiling dreamily at Roman. “He says you work for Hill, and your clients are dictators and terrorists.”

“Ah, God,” Roman shook his head, feigning sheepishness. “And that’s why Arthur isn’t our PR guy!” he laughed.

Harley’s eyes lingered on Circe a moment longer before she braced both her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, squinting at Roman thoughtfully. 

He smiled back at her and waited for her to speak. 

“What do you want?” Harley asked crisply. 

“I have a job for you,” Roman’s smile dimmed to something more business-like. “Arthur isn’t wrong about our business. We do work with some… unsavory people. The kind of people you wouldn’t want to be associated with as the Mayor of Gotham.”

“Right,” Harley agreed flatly. 

“Our work is completely legal,” Roman continued. “We pay our taxes, we don’t engage in any foreign lobbying without consent from the US government. We simply advise our clients based on their best interests, and unfortunately, that sometimes means doing business with people the American media might find… distasteful.”

“People like us?” Harley raised her eyebrows. 

“Sure,” Roman shrugged easily. “Some might call this colluding with terrorists. I see it as… thinking outside of the box.”

“How progressive of you,” Harley sneered.

Roman laughed and folded his tanned arms again, studying Harley’s face like she was something fascinating. He cocked his head to the side and hummed thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over her silvery hair, his smile growing. 

His eyes were unsettlingly large and strangely vacant, his eyelashes long and dark, almost girlish.

Harley’s face darkened to an ugly scowl. The way he was looking at her made her feel strangely… _Vulnerable._

“Here’s the deal,” Roman said candidly, bracing his hands on the shelf beneath the bar and leaning forward, speaking directly to Harley as if the Joker wasn’t there. “Hamilton’s going to be Gotham’s next Mayor. All of our polling indicates that’ll be the outcome of the election.” He pressed his hand to his chest, his expression turning sympathetic, or at least a well-honed imitation of it. “What I’m concerned about are… investigations into our business. Everyone signs a non-disclosure agreement, but all it takes are a few questions from Commissioner Akins, and we’ll have the media sniffing around.”

“Commissioner Akins?” Harley cocked her head to the side. “You’re worried the GCPD will look into Hill Consulting’s morally-dubious business practice?” 

“Morally dubious,” Roman chuckled incredulously. “That’s funny coming from you. But yes, I’d like you to bring Commissioner Akins in for us.”

“You want us to kidnap the police commissioner?” Harley tipped her chin down and raised her eyebrows. “That’s the job?”

“Please understand,” Roman laid his hand over his heart again, projecting earnest-ness that felt like bullshit to Harley. “Hamilton is like a father to me. I don’t want to see him slandered in the press. It would be such a waste to have his first term as Mayor muddied by investigations.”

“Alright, why can’t we kill Akins?” Harley shrugged one shoulder. “No muss, no fuss.” 

“We’d like to have a conversation with Mr Akins first,” Roman offered her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “To cover our bases.” 

“Right,” Harley squinted at him. “To cover your bases.”

“Let me tell you what I’d like to see,” Roman continued, his tone suggesting he frequently got what he wanted. “Ideally, you’d make it obvious it was you. You know,” he waved his hand at them. “In your _style,_ so to speak.” 

“Our _style?_ ” Harley lifted one disbelieving eyebrow. 

“Sure,” Roman nodded. “It’s not like anyone’s going to catch you, right? If it’s clear it’s you, then we won’t have any unhelpful questions asked.” 

He waited for Harley to say something, his eyebrows rising expectantly.

“What are you offering in return?” Harley asked coldly.

“What do you want?” Roman’s expression softened as he caught Harley’s eye. “I’ll give you anything you want if I can,” he promised her gently. “Anything that’s in my power to give you.”

The soft, almost tender way Roman was looking at her made something icy and uneasy slide across Harley’s shoulder blades. And the longer she stared into his large, unsettling eyes, the more she came to believe he honestly would give her whatever she wanted, whatever was in his power to give. Harley could see he was genuine, and she began to wonder what he _could_ give her, and at what price… 

She took a deep breath, her curiosity morphing into outright suspicion before she could follow that train of thought any further. She turned to glare at Circe, meeting her heavily made-up eyes.

“I want her dress,” Harley announced

Roman’s face lit up like he’d won the lottery. 

“Alright,” he grinned, looking impressed, and _very_ pleased. Then he turned to Circe, his eyebrows raising expectantly. “Honey, you heard her.”

Circe grinned at them as she climbed off her stool and reached behind her head to unzip her dress. She shimmied out of it quickly, leaving her standing in old-fashioned, cream-colored lingerie, including a lacy garter belt holding up flesh-colored stockings. She folded the dress into eighths and handed it to Harley, offering her a pretty smile, then stood back and crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes up girlishly, feigning modesty. 

Harley grit her teeth, uncertain what she was seeing, but suspicious of all of it.

“Okay,” Roman clapped resolutely, looking between Harley and the Joker while Circe hopped back up on her stool. “Are we good?” 

Harley looked up at the Joker, and they silently agreed it was time to get the fuck out of there. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, meeting Roman’s eye for a lingering moment before she turned to follow the Joker into the elevator. 

“Oh, Harley?” Roman called after her, prompting Harley to look back over her shoulder. “Please don’t be upset that Arthur told me about your… friendship,” he offered her that imitation of sympathy again. “He’s my oldest friend, and I could tell he was hiding something. I actually thought he was cheating on Helen if you can believe it!”

He laughed softly, and Harley’s eyes narrowed to a squint. 

She didn’t know what game Roman was playing, but it was definitely a game, and that was clearer than anything yet. 

“Helen’s pregnant, you see,” Roman continued. “I wouldn’t want anything to upset her right now.”

Harley said nothing as she stared back at Roman, still failing to get a read on him. His smile softened again as if he saw something in her that made him feel… _content_. 

Then the elevator doors snapped shut, startling Harley enough to make her jump. She stared at the closed doors as the elevator started to rise, trying to understand what had just happened, and after a moment, she turned around, widening her eyes at the Joker. 

“Cameras,” he muttered, looking up at the top corner of the elevator, and flashing the CCTV camera there a wry smirk. 

“Right,” Harley murmured. She looked down at the lavender dress in her hands, feeling rattled. 

They stepped out of the lift together, and strode back down the hall, ignoring the butler as they escaped out into the alley and dove into the town car. Frost already had the engine running, and once they pulled out of the alley, the BMW that had been tailing them earlier immediately slid into place behind them.

Harley looked at the Joker, finding his eyes in the dark backseat. His jaw was tense, his teeth grinding together.

“What the hell was _that_?” she sputtered.

“They were _fucking_ with us,” the Joker growled, baring his teeth. “ _That_ came from the big boss.”

“We don’t know that,” Harley pointed out, prompting the Joker to shoot her a truly dubious look. “They could just be entitled assholes who think they can get away with anything,” she insisted weakly. “We don’t have all the facts yet.”

“Oh, the _facts_ ,” the Joker rolled his eyes. “You really think that little _performance_ was about keeping their reputations clean?” 

Harley’s eyebrows knit together as she tried to find the right answer. American consulting firms working with bad actors abroad wasn’t a job for the GCPD—that was for the CIA or FBI to deal with. 

“But why?” Harley demanded. “Why would the big boss want Akins? And why do they want us to be the ones to do it in our _style_?”

The Joker pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his suit jacket and popped one between his lips, his forehead creasing as he retrieved a zippo from his pocket. It was the silver-plated zippo from the mercenary in El Salvador, Harley realized, her eyes widening as a long flame leapt to life. She was sure he’d lost it or cast it aside, but nope, there it was, still on his person. 

“It’s... a _test_ ,” the Joker sneered, catching Harley’s eye, reminding her of the situation at hand. “ _Just_ like Porter was.”

“A test for _what_ ?” Harley sighed, frustration over not understanding making her chest feel tight. “What does the boss _want_ from us?” she scowled.

It seemed the Joker didn’t have an answer to that. He flopped back in his seat, smoking quietly, his leg bouncing restlessly while he eyed Harley across the car.

She realized then that he agreed with her—that this _was_ personal. Finding the big boss wasn’t about getting ahead of the Batman for him anymore. This was self-preservation now. 

“And what was wrong with that woman?” Harley pivoted, holding up Circe’s lavender dress. “She didn’t speak once.”

“Mm,” the Joker seemed to agree. 

“I couldn’t get a read on _him_ at all,” Harley admitted, remembering the intensity of Roman’s unsettling eyes. He had been singularly focused on her as if they were alone, without their significant others there. She thought about his soft smiles and his promise that he would give her anything she wanted. She looked at the Joker, feeling lost. “What do we do?” 

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snapped, waving his cigarette at her. “Don’t _do_ that.”

Harley took a deep breath and nodded slowly. _Worrying_ was not something that burdened the Joker, and as per usual, she found his predication for rising above the politics of human beings reassuring, helping her shoulders relax a fraction as she slumped in her seat.

“Let’s give the _big_ boss what he paid for,” the Joker purred, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he nodded to the purple dress. “See what turns up.”

“I hate this,” Harley announced miserably. “I hate this… sneaking around and not knowing what the hell is going on.”

“Yeah... I _know_ ya do,” the Joker drawled, sounding annoyed as he looked out the window. “You just can’t _help_ yourself.” 

Harley turned to stare at him, her heartbeat bouncing in her throat. “What the fuck does that mean, J?” she demanded.

The Joker grumbled something under his breath, something about _women_ , making Harley’s blood boil, making her forget how calming she found him. But before she could reply, he swung around to face her squarely. 

“It means you can’t let _anything_ go,” he snapped, his eyes boring into hers like two black pits. “You always gotta know _everything_ , so you can _control_ everything, and not knowing drives… you… _crazy_.”

“You mean like not knowing you’re _roommates_ with Jonathan Crane?” Harley shot back. 

“ _Yep_ ,” he was staring into her eyes intently, trying to make her understand something. 

Harley was on the verge of snapping something cruel when it hit her what he was _trying_ to say. That he didn’t tell her about Crane because she would have insisted on getting involved one way or another, regardless of Crane's visceral disdain for her.

Confused, Harley flopped back in her seat and sat there silently, feeling rattled in a way she couldn’t remember feeling before as they took the exit for Otisberg. 

She understood what the Joker wanted to do. He wanted to play the long game, the subtle game just as the big boss was doing. He wanted to see this play out, which was why he’d gone to Lucy and kidnapped Janice Porter for her, and why he’d agreed to meet Roman. It was why he was using Crane to help him find the big boss via the drugs and the poppies. He wanted the big picture before they made a move.

Harley looked out the back windscreen as they pulled onto Samantha’s street, the BMW parking just two spots behind them. 

The Joker started to get out of the car when Harley stopped him.

“Wait,” she said, and he swung back around to squint at her owlishly. “It doesn’t make sense for us to… _pretend_ anymore,” Harley said, feeling like her organs had turned to lead as she gestured between them. “You know, about… _this_.”

The Joker stared back at her blankly, not blinking, not moving, but definitely understanding what she was saying. 

“Whatever they want from us, we’re more dangerous together,” Harley continued, staring at the back of Frost’s seat so she wouldn’t have to look at the Joker. “That’s what they want. That’s what I’m letting Lucy believe, and that’s what she’ll be telling the big boss.”

He continued to stare at her as she studiously refused to look at him. But when she pushed her door open and started to climb out, the Joker grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard enough to make the tiny bones grind together as he yanked her back into the car.

Harley sighed miserably as she bounced back in her seat, meeting his gaze reluctantly.

“Crane can’t _stand_ you,” he growled, making Harley’s eyes widen. “He wouldda turned on us the _second_ you got involved, so I kept you out of it.”

He searched her face intently, and Harley stared back at him, realizing he was again trying to explain himself and why he’d hidden Crane from her. 

But regardless of what he had intended, he'd lied to her. He’d betrayed the fundamental trust their relationship was built on.

Harley tried to pull her hand free from his, and he held on a moment longer before letting her go.

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” she said softly, shooting him one last miserable look before she climbed out of the car and pushed the door shut. 

She took a deep breath as she crossed the street, looking back over her shoulder to watch the town car slide away.

She glanced at the BMW to see if it would follow them, its occupants well aware the Joker would still be inside, but the BMW remained where it was. 

The big boss wasn’t interested in the Joker, Harley realized then.

This was about her.

* * *

Wayne Manor was ridiculous. That was the only word for it. It was overwhelmingly large and mostly vacant, its three occupants confining themselves to two or three common rooms and their bedrooms in the East Wing, which was itself a sprawling constellation of luxurious rooms.

Bruce's bedroom was at least the size of Vicki's entire apartment, if not bigger. The first night she stayed over, she made a joke about stealing a pillowcase to pay her rent, and he'd laughed it off, looking uneasy. Now a few months later, Vicki still wasn't used to the opulence and finery, but when she was with Bruce, she was too content with his company to care how obscenely big the bed they were sharing was, or that the art on the wall cost more than her annual salary. When she was with Bruce, she was happy and relaxed, and she couldn't stop smiling.

For the past twenty-four hours, she'd done little else but obsess over her conversation with Lois Lane, and it was only when she showed up on Bruce's doorstep the night before that she finally felt a sense of calm.

Now early morning sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window, making Vicki's pale blonde hair glow like a halo as Bruce hooked one muscly arm around her and pulled her against his side. She ran her fingers down his chest, tracing a sprawling purple bruise below his left collarbone that looked fresh and painful.

"Did Dinah give you this one too?" she teased, tipping her head back to smile up at him.

"Uh, yeah," he chuckled awkwardly. "She's training in jiu-jitsu, and I'm her test dummy."

"I think it's sweet you two train together," Vicki beamed at him. "Even if she does kick your ass and leave you covered in bruises."

"She has a lot of rage," Bruce replied drily, threading his fingers through Vicki’s and pulling her hand away from the bruise.

"I don't think she likes me," Vicki admitted, making a face.

"She likes you, she just has some... trust issues," he explained, frowning. "She was on her own for so long, it's like she expects everyone to turn on her."

Vicki bit her lip as she snuggled into Bruce’s side. The story she'd been given about where Dinah Pennyworth came from was full of holes, but she sensed there was a degree of protecting Dinah's privacy in those missing pieces. She was Alfred's niece but she wasn't British, and after her parents disappeared for unknown reasons, she'd spent time on the streets of Gotham. Somehow, about a year earlier, she'd reconnected with Alfred, and Bruce had welcomed his butler’s niece into his home with open arms. Vicki was curious but not curious enough to pry any deeper than that.

"She’s really protective of you," she pointed out, watching Bruce's frown deepen. "It's obvious how much she loves you."

Bruce laughed softly, looking bewildered.

"I guess she does," he agreed, as if this was a revelation to him, making Vicki's smile grow.

"What does she want to be when she grows up?" she asked, shifting back on the pillow so she could look up at him, and Bruce sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"If I can get her to agree to go to college, that'd be a start," he shrugged mildly. "After that, who knows.”

"Maybe business school?" Vicki smirked. "Does she have aspirations to be on the board of Wayne Enterprises one day?"

"God, no. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy," Bruce wrinkled his nose, making Vicki chuckle. "Half the board hates me and wants to see John Daggett in charge," he added, rolling his eyes.

The laughter died in Vicki's throat, the calm contentment she was feeling immediately stepping aside to make way for the oh-so-familiar, raging curiosity.

"John Daggett?" she asked, keeping her voice light as she propped herself up on her elbow. "Why would the board of Wayne Enterprises want John Daggett running things?"

"Money," Bruce shot her a knowing look. "When I bought a controlling interest in the company, I made some changes to the way we do business and who we're willing to do business with. That made some of their pocketbooks feel lighter."

"How much lighter?" Vicki narrowed her eyes, but Bruce just shrugged helplessly.

"I couldn’t put a number on it," he admitted. "But I know half the board is loyal to my parents' vision of Gotham— _my_ vision of Gotham—and the other half are loyal to their bank accounts. They think I'm holding the company hostage."

"So how does John Daggett factor in?" Vicki frowned, making Bruce's eyebrows raise, surprised that she was questioning him on what he probably saw as a throwaway comment.

"Well... I'm no expert," he said, eyeing Vicki curiously, almost warily. "But I’ve been told John’s pretty aggressively buying up shares of the company to get himself a seat on the board.” He shrugged. “We're still privately-owned, so it'll take a lot more than his pocketbook to make that happen. But half the board would love to see John break us up and put us back together again under Daggett Industries."

"Wow," Vicki's eyes widened. "Break up Wayne Enterprises? Like, liquidate it and reappropriate as part of Daggett's portfolio?"

"Uh… I'm no expert," Bruce said again with an uneasy smile, and Vicki could tell he was refraining from laying on some of that smug billionaire shit he used to cover himself when he was hiding something. "But my understanding is it would take Wayne Enterprises going bankrupt to make it possible, and that isn't happening anytime soon." He forced a smile. "Not while people still want to buy our fancy cell phones and cheap Chinese imports."

Vicki frowned thoughtfully, her eyes drawn to the bruise below Bruce's collarbone again. She realized it looked like a bruise from something very tiny and very fast, like a bullet striking a kevlar vest, not a fist. 

She looked up at Bruce. "What do you know about Roman Sionis?"

Bruce seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment. "Roman Sionis?"

"Yeah," Vicki nodded eagerly. "He's a consultant at Hill, and I think he consults for Daggett. He might be the one advising him to make these hyper-aggressive moves."

"Uh," Bruce shifted uncomfortably. "Tommy and I went to school with Roman when we were kids. We were all in the same year, Arthur Reeves too," he explained awkwardly. "But I haven't seen him in years."

He was hiding something. Vicki could smell it.

"Where's all this interest in Daggett and Roman coming from?" Bruce asked warily, and Vicki sighed, deciding not to push him any further than she already had.

"I interviewed Hill for the magazine," she explained with a shrug, flopping back on the pillow and frowning at the ceiling. "The other night I found an expose from the Daily Planet basically accusing Hill of courting dictators. His lawyers had it retracted and threatened the journalist."

"That sounds like Hill Consulting," Bruce said darkly. "One of the reasons I'm so unpopular with the board is I fired Hill's consultants. They were advising us to do some very profitable but morally bankrupt things."

"Daggett's his biggest donor," Vicki continued, glancing at Bruce. "By about half a million dollars."

"Half a million dollars?" Bruce's eyes widened incredulously. "For a mayoral election?"

"Exactly," Vicki squinted at the crown molding framing the ceiling. "There's a bigger story there, I just don't know what it is yet."

"Are you going to go after it?" Bruce asked, sounding concerned.

"I don't know," Vicki admitted, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked up at Bruce and offered him a smile. "Right now I just want to enjoy being with you."

His face split into a goofy grin that made Vicki's heart soar, helping her forget about Daggett and Hill and Sionis and even Harley Quinn.

* * *

Ed was pretty sure there was nothing like a lunchtime robbery, especially feeling as refreshed and fancy as he did right now. It had been his night off, so he went on a date with a charming gentleman of about fifty. This man—married, kids, successful, rich, _nervous_ —had obviously been _swimming_ in vagina for years when what he _really_ wanted was something much more _substantial_ . And he’d been so appreciative, basically worshipping Ed, and Ed loved nothing more than being worshipped. It was _miles_ better than the sex itself. 

_And_ , the gentleman slipped Ed a thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut—it _really_ didn’t get much better than that. 

Money was always a problem for Ed, forcing him to keep his shitty bar shifts at the Iceberg Lounge while he freelanced for Alexandra Kosov whenever she had a job for him, which had become increasingly rare as the city cleaned itself up. It wasn't until Ed discovered how his performance as _the Riddler_ could be lucrative that he started raking in the cash, which seemed to fly right out the window as soon as it came in. 

But Ed’s love of performing was quickly overtaking his love of money. It was that intoxicating, _satisfying_ moment when his victims realized who he was. It was the look on their faces when they tried to understand what he _meant_ appearing the way he did. It was the way the media and all their little sheep subscribers fretted over what he wanted from them. 

Ed was still trying to figure out those things too. For now, attention—or more accurately, _love_ , because what was the difference really—and _money_ were more than enough reasons to keep performing.

So with fresh money in his pocket courtesy of the closeted boomer, Ed took himself to Saks for brunch and some light shopping. Green snakeskin loafers from Dior, oversized sunglasses from Chanel, a fantastic new bowler hat from Burberry. With his new packages swinging from his arms, Ed headed to the Conservatory of Modern Art in Midtown with his white Gucci blazer in all its delicious double-breasted glory slung over his shoulder. He’d worn it for a job a few months earlier, and one didn’t want to repeat oneself, but the shoulder pads were _iconic_ , the wide-legged trousers so achingly _beautiful_ , and wearing white Gucci made Ed feel so fabulous he could sing.

He stopped in the bathroom on the second floor of the Conservatory to freshen up, changing into his new loafers and using the paint gun stashed in his satchel to apply a perfect black rectangle over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He shrugged on his blazer and dropped the new Burberry bowler hat on his head with the sunglasses as a final touch. Then he whistled cheerfully as he checked the magazine on a modified automatic a Russian arms dealer working for Alexandra had sourced for him. Apparently, it was the same gun preferred by Harley Quinn herself.

And one _did_ want to give a nod to those who came before. 

Then it was time for the show. 

De Kooning’s “Gotham News” hung behind plate glass on the Conservatory's second floor. Ed strode up to it, humming a tune stuck in his head as he examined the multimedia portrait. It was the perfect piece to round out this adventure in _high-brow_ , and it was worth 15 million at auction. 

But before doing anything else, Ed pinned his message to the wall.

It was funny how the sheep thought he was giving them clues. They just couldn’t keep his _name_ out of their mouths. 

And that was all Ed really wanted.

He wanted to see them _consumed_ by him. 

_We ache to impress and leave you wanting more_

_Man and beast and things not found on these shores_

_If we don't make you laugh, you leave us feeling blue_

_Not just the clowns, but the rest of us too_

_What are we?_

* * *

Harley’s day started with a list. She liked lists, they helped her organize her thoughts when they were all over the place. And at the moment, there were so many plates spinning, she needed to indulge in some Type A behavior. 

There were two groups of people that she could see. The people who owned the Iceberg Lounge and currently ran the mob under the big boss: Lucy and the Falcone brothers. Then there was the second group of Hamilton Hill and his associates, Arthur Reeves and Roman Sionis, who were all painfully auspicious even if she didn’t have anything to pin on them yet. 

Staring at the lists, Harley couldn’t see anything concrete connecting these two groups of people except they both offered her and the Joker jobs and apparently socialized together at the Iceberg Lounge.

So she got creative. She pulled down the screen prints of Audrey Hepburn from one of Samantha’s living room walls and found a stack of index cards and a magic marker. She wrote each of the names on an index card and taped them to the wall, drawing lines between those she knew to be connected. Mario and Alberto radiating out from Lucy. Sionis and Reeves from Hill. 

Then she added a card for Alexandra Kosov; she ran the Eastside, including all the muscle-for-hire based there, and her minions sold Lucy’s drugs.

Harley chewed her bottom lip as she stared at the murder board, deciding Hill was still the most obvious candidate for the big boss. She needed to meet him face to face, speak to him and look him in the eye. Luckily, he had a campaign fundraiser the very next evening at Wayne Hall, a golden opportunity to slither in and speak to him. 

The problem was Reeves would be there, and he would recognize her no matter how good her disguise was. 

That meant she needed to get Reeves out of the way. 

A thought that brought an enormous smirk to her lips. 

Because regardless of whether he’s been spying on her or not, he’d ignored her warning. And now he would need to face the consequences. 

She wouldn’t kill him yet, just in case he had more to tell her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little _fun_ to drive the point home. 

Her phone beeped with a message, and Harley’s eyebrows rose when she saw it was from the Joker.

_Gonna grab Piggy w/ Crane._

She didn’t know what to make of that. It appeared to be an attempt to keep her in the loop on his plans to kidnap Akins… _Why_ he would do that was less obvious. 

Distracted and no closer to understanding the mystery of the big boss, Harley turned on the news and learned the Riddler hit another gallery. This time it was the Conservatory of Modern Art. Two people were dead and he’d stolen a De Kooning work called “Gotham News,” and left a riddle. 

_We ache to impress and leave you wanting more_

_Man and beast and things not found on these shores_

_If we don't make you laugh, you leave us feeling blue_

_Not just the clowns, but the rest of us too_

_What are we?_

The pundits on GCN said the answer was ‘Circus’ and brought on an art expert to explain De Kooning’s work, which was a fraction more interesting. Painted in the post-war era, the piece represented how Gotham was crowded, confusing, and violent to some, exciting, colorful, and energetic to others.

 _"Although de Kooning did create his images spontaneously, without preparatory drawings, he placed each mark with careful consideration_ ,” the art expert explained.

That sounded somehow… _resonant_ , but Harley had enough on her mind without psychoanalyzing the Riddler and the art he stole. 

So she decided to burn off some energy, pulling on a pair of Samantha’s leggings and sneakers, and jogging around the block a few times. It was impossible to miss the gray BMW idling outside her safe house, her babysitters watching her so they could faithfully report back to the big boss.

When she got back to the apartment she had a new text from the Joker. 

_Piggy is a real squealer._

She frowned at her phone, interpreting the message to mean he’d gotten his hands on Akins. But it also appeared to be another attempt to keep her informed, making it hard to ignore that he was trying to _prove_ something to her with this gesture. 

A _gesture_ from the Joker? 

Bewildered, Harley tapped out a reply, returning the gesture by letting him know about her plan for Reeves. 

_Hill fundraiser tomorrow night. Need to lose the scumbag._

Feeling distracted and on edge, Harley turned on the news again, sensing the commissioner’s kidnapping had not been a quiet affair—especially if done in a ‘style’ to make it obvious who was doing said kidnapping. 

And of course, J had made it unwaveringly obvious by jumping out of a van in the middle of the afternoon on a busy downtown street. He’d literally _grabbed_ Commissioner Akins while he was buying a gyro from a food truck. There was cell phone footage of the kidnapping, none of it very clear, though it did capture the Joker laughing like a maniac after throwing Akins in the back of a van. 

There went flying under the radar. The news was already speculating that Harley and the Joker kidnapped or killed Janice Porter, pointing out they had a history of threatening DAs and police commissioners and judges and mayors... 

Which was… obviously true. 

Could that be why the big boss chose to disappear Porter and Akins as the jobs to test them? To expose their return to Gotham?

Or could there be a more relevant, practical reason for wanting them out of the picture? 

Needing to be productive, Harley turned her attention to her task for the evening: getting Reeves out of the way so she could get some facetime with Hill. She had a few fantastic ideas, all of them sure to be violent and satisfying, making it tricky to decide on just one. 

After a shower, she wiggled into the smallest dress in Samantha’s closet, an electric blue thing that was skintight and almost pornographically short. She truly couldn’t give a fuck about blending with the evening’s theme, not with what she had in mind. She pulled on Samantha’s flat thigh high boots and examined herself in the mirror again. She was _missing_ something. 

So she grabbed a pot of black greasepaint and dipped her fingers into the tacky substance, smearing it neatly around her eyelids, less dramatic than her usual warpaint. With a slick of scarlet lipstick, it was sure to be effective.

Then she got another text from the Joker. 

_Bet you can’t make him squeal as loud as this little piggy._

Harley’s eyes widened, and something a little _giddy_ raced around her stomach. 

Was he _flirting_ with her? 

Frost showed up shortly thereafter to pick her up, watching in the rearview mirror as she slid into the backseat. 

“How you doin’, doc?” he asked as they pulled away from the curb. “Looks like you’re ready to work.”

“Very astute, Frost,” Harley smirked. “How did it go with Akins today?”

“I think the boss was happy to get out and stretch his legs.” Frost caught her eye in the mirror and smirked back at her. “The cops were on our tail for a while there, but we outran em’.” 

Harley laughed as her phone beeped with a new message from the Joker, making her heart leap.

 _Tear him to pieces._

She sat back in her seat, drumming her fingers on her leg and bouncing her heel, unsure what to make of these attempts to engage her. The incomprehensible idea that this was some form of _repentance_ occured to her, but after knowing the Joker for two years and being his partner for half that time, she had a hard time wrapping her head around that possibility. 

It was Thursday night, and the line for the Iceberg Lounge was wrapped around the block. Harley told Frost to stick close by, knowing she’d need to make a quick escape, hopefully, sooner rather than later. She ignored the handful of party-goers staring as she slipped out of the town car and swanned up to one of the handsome bouncers, giving them the name Peaches Kane and letting them check her bag before she strode into the club, determined to make this quick.

Harley pushed through the crowded dance floor, ignoring their ridiculous outfits and the swooping music, which was all early 90s dance hall pianos and steady two-step beats, a woman crooning joyfully over the top about dancing forever. 

Ed was behind the bar at his usual spot, pouring out cocktails. When he saw Harley, his mouth fell open and he drew a heart in the air with his fingertips. 

“ _Meow!_ ” he gasped happily, shouting over the music. “You look like absolute _trash_ , Ms Quinn, and I am _living_ for it!”

“Hi, Ed,” Harley greeted him with a grin, leaning on the bar. “Anyone interesting here tonight?”

Ed’s eyes twinkled as he nodded toward the birdcage. “Just Hamilton Hill’s backup dancers.”

“Uh-huh,” Harley narrowed her eyes at Ed, trying to work out his angle as she toyed with a small knife used for cutting limes. 

_“Ooooooh_ , don’t _look_ at me like that,” Ed pretended to swoon, fanning himself. “All that _fierceness_ is gonna make me need my fainting couch!” 

Harley snorted and twirled the knife between her fingers, showing it to Ed. 

“I’m going to borrow this,” she told him, raising one eyebrow, and Ed took a deep breath, nodding mutely, and looking…

_Thrilled._

Shooting Ed one last curious look, Harley slipped the knife into the fanny pack buckled around her waist and shoved her way over to the VIP area, where Reeves and Bobby Kane were talking animatedly while Lucy cracked open a bottle of champagne. There was a group of Hill campaign staffers there too, laughing like hyenas as a stream of bubbles fizzed out of the champagne bottle. When Lucy saw Harley, she shoved the bottle of champagne at Mario who took over pouring it into a pyramid of coup-glasses, most of the champagne ending up on the floor though it seemed to delight their guests. 

“Harley,” Victor greeted her with a vacant smile. “I like your makeup.”

Harley ignored him, her eyes settling on Reeves, the only reason she was there. She felt her pulse throb in her neck, knowing exactly what she wanted to do. 

“Harley, you’re back!” Lucy beamed. She was wearing a mini-dress made of pink latex with matching elbow-length gloves, both fringed with pink feathers.

“Hi Lucy,” Harley offered Lucy a smirk as she examined Harley’s blackened eyes. Her sunny expression dimmed briefly before she recovered, or at least hid it and started beaming again.

Harley turned to find Reeves, who was swigging champagne with his colleagues. 

“Peaches!” he crowed, prepared for her presence this time. He opened his arms wide and flashed his Colgate grin. “You look beautiful, baby,” he crooned, his eyes lingering on the short hem of her dress.

Harley could tell he was picturing her anatomy beneath it. 

Oh, she was looking _forward_ to this. 

She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes, watching him get a little flustered, some of that boorishness wearing off. 

She unzipped her fanny pack and reached inside to thumb the call button on her burner, letting Frost know this was going to be quick. 

“I need to talk to you,” Harley told Reeves, glancing over her shoulder before she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and meeting his eye again. “Alone,” she added.

Reeves nodded stupidly, and Harley offered him a quick, reassuring smile before she turned and led him through the old kitchen doors, ignoring Lucy’s green eyes on her back. 

Once they were in the old kitchens, Harley headed for the back door leading out into the alley, releasing Reeves’s hand and letting him trundle along behind her, excited and nervous and probably aroused, knowing him.

She stopped short in the small hallway leading to the club’s back entrance, a dark, narrow space lined with crates of champagne. She took a deep breath to prepare herself, then used two fingers to smear her lipstick around her mouth and up her cheeks.

“So uh, what did you want to _talk_ about,” Reeves drawled behind her, a suggestive smirk in his voice. “I can think of a few things I’ve been _dying_ to ask you.”

Harley turned around to face him, her expression decidedly unamused, and Reeves stopped short as he realized he had massively misjudged the situation. 

Harley grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shoved him up against the wall, his head cracking against the plaster. Reeves probably had at least a hundred pounds on her, but he still froze, his eyes widening as he threw his hands up in surrender. 

“Woah-woah-woah!” he chanted when Harley pulled the knife on him. “You said you wanted to talk!”

“Oh I _do_ want to talk _, Arthur_ ,” Harley growled, yanking him forward by his suit jacket then slamming him back again, making his teeth rattle. “You broke the _rules._ ”

“The _rules_ ?” Reeves yelped when Harley held the knife to his throat. “Harley, no, no, no, please, _please…_ ” he begged, his eyes squeezing shut as Harley tisked loudly over the pounding bass from the club. 

“We had an agreement,” she sneered. “You keep your mouth shut, and I don’t _hurt you_.”

“Harley, please—” he pleaded, his pulse visibly leaping at his neck. 

“But you still went and bragged to your buddy,” Harley continued softly, watching a few beads of blood dribble down his neck under the pressure of the knife. _“Didn’t you!”_

“I’m sorry! I’m _sorry_!” Reeves pleaded. “Roman’s my oldest friend, he—he got it out of me. I swear Harley, I thought maybe—maybe you would want to work with him, I don’t know!”

Harley searched his face as he spoke, and she immediately knew he was lying. She hadn’t been looking for it before, but now that she was, it was so obvious. 

She chuckled and ran the tip of her finger down his jaw, just as she had at the Tobacconist’s Club when she first laid out the terms of their relationship. Then she met his eye again. 

He had gone completely still, frozen with fear.

Now _that_ was more like it. 

Harley grabbed Reeves' wrist and slammed it up against the wall beside his head. Before he could pull away, she stabbed the knife through his little finger, straight into the wall on the other side. 

Reeves screamed bloody murder, fruitlessly trying to pull his hand free until Harley pinched the tip of his partially severed finger and ripped it off. She yanked the knife out of the wall and had against his throat again before he could attempt an escape, her hand flying up to grab his screaming face. She shoved his head back against the wall and dug her nails into his cheek, forcing his mouth open wider. Then she shoved his amputated finger past his lips, slapping her palm over the lower half of his face before he could spit it out. 

Reeves’ eyes bulged in horror as he screamed into her hand, trying to wriggle away until Harley dug the point of the knife into his jugular, cutting him and making him freeze up. 

Then she leaned in close, staring into Reeves’ eyes as she spoke to the big boss through him. 

“You do _not_ want to fuck with me,” she said softly, searching Reeves’ horrified face. “I _promise…_ you will regret it.”

The back door flew open, revealing two of Lucy’s handsome bouncers. They looked between Harley’s semi-painted face and Reeves, who was still screaming into her hand, and started reaching for their guns. 

Harley dropped to the ground and swung her leg at one of the bouncers’ ankles, knocking him off his feet, his gun skittering across the floor as he fell on his ass. She snatched up the gun and put two bullets in his partner’s chest, then pivoted back to him, shooting him in the head and killing him instantly. 

Harley hopped back to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her, making her dizzy. She spared a quick look for Reeves, who had slid down the wall, panting and swooning, his bloodied finger in the palm of his hand. 

Satisfied with her work, Harley stepped over the bodies of the two bouncers and burst out into the alley where Frost was waiting with the car. 

A girl screamed, and Harley spun around to face the people waiting to get into the club. She was still holding the bouncer’s gun, and her dress was splattered with Reeves’ blood. She looked up and down the line of people, watching them react as they realized who she was—who she _really_ was— and she let them see her, basking in the glow of their fear and confusion. 

They were like _cattle_. 

Harley flashed them a grin before she dove into the back of the town car, prompting Frost to hit the gas before her door was even shut. Harley collapsed back against the seat, panting and feeling nearly delirious as she ran her hands over the soft leather of Samantha’s boots, laughing to herself. 

Then the burner in her fanny pack beeped with a new message, and Harley scrambled to pull out the phone, a stupid grin on her face when she saw it was from the Joker. 

_Don’t leave me hanging._

Harley beamed happily and tapped out a reply. 

_Not a squealer. A screamer._

* * *

**A/N: First Harley & Roman meeting! **

**Harley and the Joker making nice with flirty texts!**

**Got to see a little bit more about Ed. I don’t think it’s spoiling anything to say this is kind of an origin story for him. Right now he’s very much a copycat who enjoys toying with people, but as Bruce notes in chapter 1, he isn’t quite a Joker-level, call-the-National-Guard threat…** **_yet_ ** **.**

**And, Harley FINALLY gets some revenge! Silly Reeves.**

**Follow me on Tumblr ([knit-wear-it](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/knit-wear-it)) for more content (like Lucy and Harley's dresses in this chapter...) and general lolz. My Asks are always open, especially on Sundays & Mondays. We're having a lot of fun over there right now. **

**_Next: The Joker and Crane get some facetime with one of the big boss's thugs while Harley goes to Hamilton Hill's fundraiser._  
**

**Next week is probably the most squeal-inducing chapter yet.**

**Please review and comment! I live for it!**

**xo**


	8. Chapter 8

_**Previously: Harley chops off Reeves' finger so he's out of the way when she meets Hamilton Hill, who she suspects may be the big boss. The Joker and Crane have kidnapped Commissioner Akins for Roman Sionis, who they believe gave them the job on behalf of the big boss.** _

_Theme: Charlotte Adigery - 'Patinepat' ([Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBmzhj9DCPo)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/6FuCoEDwE9Kr5j5zuXVRKb?si=QQLEOiqJRAiH0L2chv16ag))_

* * *

The Pantomime

8.

* * *

Frost was happy. When he picked Harley up from the Iceberg Lounge, she was smiling and chatty on the drive back to her safe house.

"You happy, doc?" he asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror, seeing she had red lipstick smeared from cheek to cheek. That was how the Joker did his warpaint—she usually just smeared hers around her mouth a little—and Frost wondered if she’d done it on purpose. Either way, it made him very happy. 

"For now," she sighed, shooting him a grin.

When he dropped her off, the silver BMW that had been tailing them all night parked down the street. But once Harley disappeared inside and Frost pulled away, he saw it edge closer, parking right outside her door. Jesus. He shook his head and turned back to the freeway, checking his mirrors regularly to make sure he didn't have anyone on his back as he drove Downtown.

Frost pulled into a twenty-four-hour parking lot a few blocks from where they'd picked up the police commissioner that afternoon. He grabbed a ticket from the machine and parked, then crossed the lot where the old wood-paneled station wagon was waiting, its giant backend half-sticking out of the parking spot.

Frost slid behind the wheel, nodding silently to Dr Crane, who was in the passenger seat with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling. The Joker was lounging across the back seat, his knees bent, his warpaint smeared, a smirk dancing on his red lips telling Frost he'd been successfully taunting Crane again. Then in the back, there was muffled shuffling and whining as the police commissioner made himself known.

"Ready to go, boss?" Frost asked the Joker who chuckled throatily and flicked a zippo open and closed against his thigh.

"How'd she do?" he asked gruffly.

"She seemed in a real good mood, boss," Frost smiled, pulling the station wagon out of the lot as the Joker gave a satisfied chuckle.

"What does  _ that _ mean?" Crane snapped, turning to glare at the Joker in the back where he was firing off a text.

"I can't read her  _ mind _ , can I?" the Joker drawled back, a hint of a suggestion that maybe he  _ could _ in his tone.

Frost tried not to chuckle—people didn't realize the Joker was  _ actually _ funny—as he headed for the drop off point near the harbor. They stopped to let Crane out a block early, but only after a lot of complaining and hissing about his role. He was nervous, no good with a gun or on his own without muscle to help him. One on one in a controlled situation, Dr Crane was definitely someone you didn't want to get on the wrong side of. But out in the open, like they were tonight, he had to be real specific about how he played the situation.

They pulled into the alley where they’d agreed to meet the men Sionis sent to pick up the Commissioner, staying in the car until a black BMW pulled in behind them.

"Black beamer, boss," Frost announced. “Just like the big boss’s pals.” 

"Mmm," the Joker agreed as he pushed open the car door. "That's an  _ astute _ observation, Frost."

The men in the beamer got out too, everyone playing by the usual rules of engines running, headlights on, weapons away as they met at the back of the station wagon.

"Evenin', boys," the Joker drawled, his black eyes rolling over the two thugs like he was memorizing them.

Frost thought they looked like Russians who'd recently come up in the world. Yuri's boys always used to wear denim and leathers or tracksuits, always scuffed up and a little crummy looking just like their boss. Looking at these two, you could tell they'd once worked for Yuri—they had that cocky Russian swagger down—but they were wearing nice suits and shiny shoes, their faces clean-cut, their hair clipped short and neat. Someone had dressed them up that way, it was obvious. Intentional.

"Joker-man," one of them smirked, his voice heavily accented. "The boss want us tell you... _ thank you _ , for such timely work."

"The  _ boss _ , huh?” the Joker hummed as Frost opened the back of the station wagon and stepped aside for the Russians. "That’d be uh, Mr Sionis?”

“Mr Sionis is very important businessman,” the Russian said stiffly, not giving anything away. “The boss respects him very much.”

“Oh, I  _ bet _ he does,” the Joker shot back slyly. “Hope ya don’t mind we uh… had a little fun with the Commissioner first."

"So long as he is not broken, I am sure we will not mind," the Russian’s face twisted into a smile that didn't come naturally. Frost suspected he'd been instructed to smile, be polite.

The Russians moved the wiggling, grunting police commissioner from the station wagon to the trunk of their car while the Joker and Frost watched impassively. The Joker lit a cigarette and leaned against the car, by all appearances completely indifferent as one of the Russians slammed their beamer’s trunk closed and the other spread his arms wide, giving them another tight smile.

"So... we thank you... again," he said, looking pinched as his partner sent them a wary look and climbed behind the wheel. "Good night."

Frost and the Joker took a few cautious steps back as the Russian turned to leave, when a dark figure wearing a mask made of burlap and rope slipped between the two cars, blocking his path. There was a  _ hiss _ as the Scarecrow sprayed the Russian in the face with fear toxin, followed by coughing and gasping that quickly morphed into screams. The screams escalated when the Scarecrow pulled a taser, glinting electric blue in the dark alley, and jabbed the Russian in the side, making him howl as his body convulsed.

The Russian's partner jumped out of the car with his gun drawn while Frost and the Joker dove into the station wagon for cover, the Joker shouting blithely about not wanting to go crazy like Carmine Falcone.

The Scarecrow turned on the second Russian, holding up his screaming partner by his jacket as he raised his arm. That was enough to make the second Russian dart back into the car, apparently giving up on his friend as he reversed out of the alley and screeched away into the night.

Dr Crane dropped the screaming Russian and ripped off the Scarecrow mask, panting and sweaty as he raked a hand through his dark hair.

"See, I _ told _ ya you could do it," the Joker drawled, strolling up behind Crane and slapping him on the back hard enough to make him lose his footing. "And whaddya know, these guys  _ do _ know the big boss after all _. _ "

"Shut up," Crane snapped, throwing the taser down beside the babbling Russian and turning to stomp back to the station wagon.

"You really got a way with these girlie weapons, Jonny," the Joker taunted him, kicking the taser away before he squatted down to lift the still-screaming Russian under the armpits while Frost took his ankles. 

"You happy, boss?" Frost asked once they'd thrown the Russian in the back and slammed the door shut.

"I'm  _ always _ happy, Frost," the Joker countered, pointing to his scars. "Haven't you noticed? I'm  _ always _ smiling."

Frost chuckled, knowing the Joker well enough by now to know that meant he was

* * *

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.  _

Lucy had been chanting the curse in her head ever since she was informed two of her bouncers were shot dead, and Arthur Reeves was down a finger. All thanks to that duplicitous  _ bitch  _ Harley Quinn. 

_ FUCK. _

Mario and Alberto were essentially useless, so Lucy immediately jumped into crisis mode on her own, organizing her men to dispose of the bouncers’ bodies, paying off potential witnesses, and spiriting Reeves to Gotham City Hospital quickly and quietly before fending off the GCPD. It was stressful, sure, but  _ manageable _ . 

No, Lucy was in a blind panic because Arthur Reeves was Roman’s oldest friend, his most trusted confidant, his most  _ loyal  _ employee. And Lucy let him be maimed by Harley Quinn. Now she had to face Roman, a thought that sent ice-cold terror spreading through her entire body. 

It was coming up to 5 AM when Lucy and Victor stepped into the Flatiron Building’s private elevator to the penthouse, the sun only just about to rise. Lucy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored glass and winced; she was pale with dark circles under her eyes, her lips bloodless, the stress of the evening manifesting itself on her face. 

“You want a little pick me up?” Victor offered drily, a shitty smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. 

“No,” Lucy muttered.

Circe was waiting for them in the penthouse’s foyer, smiling dreamily as she held the heavy front door open for them. She looked like she’d fallen straight out of  _ Valley of the Dolls _ in a pale pink nightie and matching silk robe, her feet outfitted in low-heeled, feathered slippers that looked uncomfortable. 

While Victor loitered in the foyer, Circe led Lucy through the kitchen and breakfast area into a living room. It was decorated in warm, earthy tones and geometric prints, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows filling the space with dewy morning light. 

Roman was sitting on a long, olive-green sofa, his bare feet kicked up and crossed at the ankle, a slim silver laptop open in his lap holding his attention when Circe deposited Lucy in front of him.

“What is it with these Saudis,” Roman sighed, closing the laptop and looking up at Lucy, his expression hard to read. “Don’t get caught killing journalists for the Washington Post.” He shrugged as if this was obvious. “It’s that easy.”

Lucy twisted her fingers together nervously, uncertain how she should respond, and eventually settling on heartfelt repentance.

“I’m... um, I’m  _ so _ sorry, boss,” she gushed, clasping her hands together. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I shoudda known letting Harley into the club was a bad idea after the Joker attack yesterday… I just… I didn’t think about how him kidnapping the Commissioner might mean—” 

“Oh, Lucy, no,” Roman laughed gently and held up his hand to stop her rambling. “I set that up. Harley and the Joker kidnapped Akins for me.” He smiled patiently. 

Lucy‘s eyebrows knit together as she tried to keep up. “I… what do you mean, boss?”

“Commissioner Akins was a loose end I needed tying up,” Roman explained, still smiling. “I must admit, they work remarkably fast. I only met with them the night before last to arrange this.”

“You met with Harley and the Joker?” Lucy asked uneasily. But Roman didn’t seem to think that warranted a response. 

“Tonight I’ll speak to our group about Harley,” Roman gestured for Lucy to sit on the couch. “I’m sure you can imagine who  _ won’t _ be thrilled about the prospect of bringing her on board, so I need you to back me up.” 

“Sure, boss,” Lucy agreed eagerly. “You know I’ll always back ya up.”

Roman got to his feet and wandered over to the living room’s large window, looking out over the city. 

“She’s a natural leader,” he mused. “She has this cold…  _ intensity _ that’s just...” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “It’s gripping, is what it is, and it’s impossible not to be affected by it.” 

Lucy watched Roman talk, the fear that had paralyzed her all night melting into something much more  _ unimpressed _ . 

“How did you arrange a meeting with them, boss?” Lucy asked warily. “Sounds pretty dangerous.”

“Arthur set it up,” Roman explained, turning away from the window to offer her a smile.

Lucy’s eyes widened. 

“So you just…threw Reeves under the bus?” she asked, struggling to keep her temper in check. “Just like that?”

Roman tipped his head to the side, eying Lucy curiously like he didn’t understand something. 

“You don’t approve of my methods?” he asked, walking back to her, and Lucy rose to her feet, not wanting to cower in his shadow. 

She folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. “No, boss. I don’t approve.”

Roman raised his eyebrows, and then he laughed quietly, without humor. 

“You… are judging  _ me _ ?” he asked softly, and when Lucy opened her mouth to tell him she was  _ advising  _ him, his hand flew up and closed around her throat, his palm pressing against her windpipe. 

Lucy choked, too surprised to do anything but stagger forward as Roman yanked her close so their faces were centimeters apart, his hand tightening on her throat. 

“You would do well to remember where you would be without me _ , Lucy _ ,” Roman advised her coldly, calmly. “You are  _ worthless  _ without me. I am the only reason you aren’t dancing at the fucking  _ Cheetah Bar  _ again.” He used his grip on her neck to shake her until her teeth rattled, and she was gasping for air. “Arthur is loyal and knows his place, whereas you might benefit from some time at the  _ plant _ .”

Lucy shook her head furiously, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. Then finally, Roman released her neck and shoved her back down on the couch. 

He sighed and planted his fists on his hips as he watched Lucy cough and sputter, trying to catch her breath while she palmed her sore throat. 

“Are we going to have a problem tonight, Lucy?” Roman asked her mildly, and Lucy shook her head furtively. 

“No, boss, no, we ain’t got a problem,” she croaked.

It seemed to appease Roman, his brow easing out of its unhappy furrow, his full lips spreading into a gentle smile as he sat on the couch beside her. 

“Isn’t this nicer?” he asked her softly, laying his hand on Lucy’s shoulder and meeting her eye. “Do you know how much you mean to me, Lucy? How special you are?”

Lucy monitored her expression very carefully as she considered her response. She was far too familiar with the alternating violence and affection that came with abuse, she’d had it her whole life, and she knew Roman calling her special was just more of that. 

Then she remembered what Harley said to her the first night she came to the Iceberg Lounge alone. 

_ You’re smarter than you pretend to be, and you have good instincts.  _

_ That makes you dangerous.  _

And unlike Roman, Lucy believed her. 

“No one’s ever said anythin’ like that to me before,” Lucy lied, her voice watery as she offered Roman a bashful smile. “Not even Penguin.” 

Roman sighed happily, his eyes drifting over Lucy like she was something precious, but a thing nonetheless. 

He looked up as Circe and Victor arrived from the breakfast area, both of them waiting silently for instructions. 

They couldn’t have been more different. Circe was beautiful and glamorous in pink silk and feathers, while Victor was severe and remorseless, his skin stark white against his black-on-black suiting, his eyes hollow. But seeing them side by side made it impossible to ignore how similar their vacant expressions were. Blank slates for Roman to inscribe his will upon.

It was a strong reminder that you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a ‘talk’ with Roman Sionis.

* * *

Dinah got back to the Manor just after dawn, having spent the entire night combing the city for leads by herself. 

Then, around midnight, the police scanners started blowing up because Harley Quinn had been seen at the Iceberg Lounge. People in the line outside called the cops, saying there had been gunshots, and that Harley appeared armed with a gun and covered in blood. But the club’s management insisted it must have been a mistake, everything was fine, and they refused to let the police inside. 

Dinah had investigated all of this alone because Vicki showed up at the manor unannounced the night before, apparently impulsively deciding she needed to spend some time with Bruce. He obliged her, of course, even though they had the Joker and Harley Quinn officially on the loose, not some small-time criminal or a crooked cop. They were the only threat that mattered, and Dinah had been waiting for this day to come.

So needless to say, she was a little bit peeved that when their greatest foes returned to Gotham, Bruce opted to stay home with Vicki instead of finding and stopping them. 

Dinah sighed heavily as she poured out a cup of coffee, exhausted but knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“Morning,” Vicki greeted Dinah cheerfully. “Ooh, can I grab some of that?”

“Sure,” Dinah offered her a strained smile and returned to the kitchen table. Her laptop sat open there, a paused video of Harley giving a lecture about psychopaths on the screen. It had been circulating for a few weeks, the view count already over fifty million in that short span of time. 

Dinah stared at Vicki’s back as she poured herself a cup of coffee, and waited for her to turn around. Then she tapped the play button, and Harley’s voice filled the room.

_ “Imagine stripping away everything that makes you human - your capacity for empathy, your ability to love and nurture and connect, to be accountable to yourself and society. Psychopaths are not capable of those things, and they don’t even realize they’re missing them.” _

Vicki immediately froze, obviously recognizing Harley’s voice, something most people would not be able to do, at least not as quickly as she did. 

“What is that?” Vicki demanded, sounding uneasy as she turned around.

“Harley Quinn before she was Harley Quinn,” Dinah explained, pausing the video. “Someone uploaded it a few weeks ago.”

“Someone has good timing,” Vicki observed, looking vaguely sick, and perhaps guilty too. 

“You used to write about her a lot,” Dinah pointed out mildly. “Why do you think they kidnapped Commissioner Akins?”

“Why are you so interested in Harley Quinn?” Vicki countered.

“I’m taking Psych 101 online,” Dinah shrugged. “I think it’s interesting that someone so smart and accomplished who’s also an expert on psychopaths got brainwashed into falling in love with the Joker.” She lifted an eyebrow at Vicki, watching her face closely. “That’s what you wrote, right?” 

“Well,” Vicki shifted uncomfortably. “The people in her life thought she’d been brainwashed or manipulated but… that could have been wishful thinking on their part. They also said she was a loner, so maybe they didn't really know her as well as they thought.”

“What do you think happened?” Dinah asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I think…” Vicki looked into her coffee cup, frowning. “I think she was probably a bad person before she met him, but he let the clown out of the box, so to speak. He gave her a license to stop hiding who she really was.”

Dinah stared at Vicki, knowing then that Harley had told her her story. Maybe Harley treated Vicki like a friend, confusing her and manipulating her, just like she did to Dinah. But it was also possible that Vicki  _ still _ knew Harley. That she might be able to point Dinah in Harley’s direction.

“But wildly speculating on why Harley Quinn does what she does isn’t my job anymore,” Vicki added pointedly. “I just interview businessmen and politicians these days.”

“Sure,” Dinah nodded, tapping the video back on. Harley’s voice filled the room again, making Vicki wince.

_ “Psychopaths don’t have brakes like the rest of us, so they’re capable of anything. They have no boundaries... They have no limits. Nothing can stop them.” _

* * *

It seemed like Hamilton Hill was always on television. Harley watched him speak and give interviews as she worked out in Samantha's living room, struggling to decide if she was being unfair to him by assuming he wasn't capable of awful things just because outwardly, he seemed so  _ boring _ .

The only thing for it was to look him in the eye to get a real sense of him. His campaign was holding a fundraiser that evening at Wayne Hall, the kind of event where you got time with the candidate depending on how much money you spent.

That meant Harley needed to make a call to a certain minion she had very little patience for. 

"What do  _ you _ want," Lonnie demanded by way of greeting when she called his burner.

"Hi Lonnie," Harley rolled her eyes. "I need you to take care of a couple of things for me."

" _ What? _ " he snapped petulantly. In the background, she could hear the  _ pew!-pew!-pew! _ of the video game he was playing.

"Hamilton Hill is hosting a closed-door fundraiser tonight," Harley explained, exasperated. "I need to be on the guest list and I need a black Amex."

"Uh huh," Lonnie muttered unhappily, the video game sounds replaced with computer keys clacking noisily. "I got the card, just need to press a name on it. Marge Kuntz, right?"

He chuckled at his little joke.

"Peaches Kane," Harley replied drolly. "But you should know I think Marge Kuntz is  _ really _ funny."

"Fine," Lonnie scoffed. "Peaches Kane is on the guest list. How am I gonna get you this card?"

"How about you get off your ass and drive it over here?" Harley scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"J says I can't leave the honeymoon suite," Lonnie snapped moodily.

"Then I'll send Frost," Harley bit back.

"Whatever," he muttered, hanging up on her.

Harley showered and got ready for the fundraiser, choosing one of the few suits Samantha owned—black with high-waisted trousers and a Le Smoking jacket. Samantha had hung a very tiny, strapless bodice with the suit like she'd intended to wear it together, so Harley threw it on too, trusting Samantha's fashion sense far more than her own. With her platinum hair wavy around her shoulders, a flick of black eyeliner and some extremely pointy heels, her disguise was ready to go.

But there was one more necessary detail. Harley dug a switchblade out of the canvas duffel bag leftover from Honduras and turned the small knife over in her hands thoughtfully, trying to decide where to carry it. Her clutch was too obvious if she had to open it in front of fellow fundraiser attendees, but the way things had been going the last few days, she wanted to be armed with more than a stiletto heel just in case. In the end, she found some black electrical tape and created a small pocket for it to lay flat between her breasts beneath the bodice, ready for her should she need to defend herself or murder someone. Or both.

Frost had just let her know he'd picked up the Amex from Lonnie and was on his way when she got a text from the Joker.

_ Need you. Warehouse now. _

Harley hummed dubiously, wondering what the hell that could mean. She was a little annoyed at being  _ summoned, _ her presence _ demanded _ , but it was annoyingly satisfying to be  _ needed _ too.

_ Fine _ , she wrote back, her curiosity piqued as she tried to imagine what he and Crane had been getting up to in the wake of kidnapping the police commissioner. What they may have learned.

Now she just needed to figure out how to get there without her babysitters noticing.

* * *

It took about twelve hours for the fear toxin to wear off the Russian, during which time Crane employed some tried and tested methods to retrieve information, none of which were successful. The Joker shouldered his way in several times, laughing hysterically at the reaction his painted face got from the Russian. 

"Torture isn't a, uh... one-way _ street _ , Jonny," the Joker pointed out when Crane accused him of not taking it seriously. "It's a _ conversation _ ... how'm I supposed to have a chat with this guy when he's high as a kite, huh?"

Crane grumbled and stomped over to the air mattress to get some sleep after too-many hours awake. When he woke up it was to a meaty slap and some light taunting from the other side of the loft where the Russian was tied up, spitting indignantly as the Joker prowled around him, apparently deeming him sober enough to torture.

Curious, Crane stood back and watched, his arms folded. While he'd been sleeping, the Joker had set up what could only be called a  _ torture station _ . A series of knives were lined up on one of the lab tables alongside a power drill, a hammer, and strangely, a vegetable peeler. Crane noticed a baseball bat leaning against the wall too. The Joker had removed his jacket, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat and the sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows, his tie draped casually around his neck.

"Oh _ , hey _ ," the Joker smirked at Crane over his shoulder. "Come to join in?"

"I'll just observe, thank you," Crane shot back snidely. He was intrigued but he would never admit it.

The Joker spent a full hour talking to the Russian, feigning friendliness, which in itself was unnervingly sinister. After an hour, it was clear from the Russian's face that he thought the Joker was unhinged, capable of anything, and that he had no breaks. All of that was already well-known to the entire city, but up close, one-on-one, it was a potent reminder.

_ "So _ ," the Joker huffed, hopping off the stool and swinging his arms and shoulders like he was loosening up. Then he spread his arms wide, grinning at the Russian, whose eyes widened. "Let's get started, huh?"

He pulled back his fist and jabbed the Russian in the face, quick and sharp and  _ hard _ , splitting the Russian's lip as he yelped in surprise at the sudden onslaught.

"What happened to never start with the head," Crane deadpanned.

The Joker shot Crane a look that was more than a little threatening, but somehow debilitatingly patronizing too.

"I've got a  _ method, _ Jonny," he explained drily. Then he turned back to the Russian, delivering a left-hook to the Russian's ear that made him cry out as his head snapped to the side. "Keep quiet if yer gonna watch," he added with another jab, pulling a moan out of their victim.

"I suppose you consider yourself a professional," Crane observed caustically.

"Best in the business, Jonny," the Joker shot back, getting in a torso shot that had the Russian gasping.

Crane watched silently for the hours that followed, wherein the Joker continued to talk at the Russian, filling him in on what they were after but not asking questions as he intermittently punched him in the face and torso. 

After a short break to let the Russian recover, the questions started, along with much more brutal shows of physical violence. The Joker started with the power drill, then backed down to the vegetable peeler, then ratcheted back up to the hammer.

Psychologically, it was quite impressive what he was doing. Almost building up a twisted form of trust, never showing anger or frustration. Just professional interest to let the Russian know this was a transactional situation, even if the Joker  _ was _ capable of just about anything. The entire process was light-hearted, interspersed with little jokes and occasionally, that shrill, horrible laugh, another tool in his arsenal.

However, none of it actually worked.

The Russian didn't talk. He pleaded with them, he promised them he would do whatever they wanted, but he didn’t tell them his boss's name, or even  _ why _ he wouldn’t. The Joker tried to get around it with more psychological tricks, and Crane even made some suggestions that he took on board, but it was no good.

"Maybe there's been some kind of conditioning," Crane mused watching the Russian sob and swoon over a recently amputated finger. “Prolonged torture can warp the mind in fascinating ways.”

"Mmm," the Joker prodded the scar splitting his bottom lip thoughtfully. “ _ Nah _ ,” he announced. 

"What makes you say that?" Crane asked warily. 

“That's a  _ whole _ lotta effort for a meathead like him,” the Joker flapped his hand at the howling man. “Noo nono  _ no _ , this...  _ this _ is...'' He wrinkled his nose, his face souring.  _ “Loyalty.”  _

He grabbed a burner phone out of his trouser pocket and fired off a quick text then shoved it back, not checking the phone when it beeped with a reply.

Then he started up with the questions and the occasional punch again, never exerting himself. It was almost like he was winding down...

Crane soon realized why, and who he had messaged.

The loft's sliding door slammed open and Harleen strode in, looking annoyed as her heels snapped across the floorboards. She was wearing a black suit, a single button holding the jacket closed, by all appearances wearing very little beneath. Crane turned around to look at the Joker, who was rocking back on his heels, his hands in his pockets, a small, smug smile dancing on his lips as she stormed up to him.

"Who's this?" she demanded, looking at the Russian.

"The big boss sent him to pick up the  _ commish _ ," the Joker explained, unfazed that she was annoyed with him. "But he ain't talkin'." He shot her a knowing look. “Are those enough  _ facts _ for you?” 

“Hill and Reeves work for the big boss,” Harleen agreed moodily. " _ You _ can't get him to talk?"

"It seems the master-torturer here can't get past basic loyalty," Crane informed her drily. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How did you get down here if the boss is having you followed?"

"With extreme caution and many detours," Harleen shot back. "And now I'm going to be late for this fundraiser—my best shot at getting facetime with Hill."

"Well," the Joker shrugged helplessly, fighting back a smug grin. "If you can get a name outta this guy,  _ maybe  _ you won't have to."

"Wait,  _ she's _ going to get the name out of him?" Crane shot Harleen a dubious look, but she just rolled her eyes as if she found his lack of faith in her predictable, making Crane bristle.

"Fine," she sighed, kicking off her high heels then shrugging out of her suit jacket, beneath which she wore a small, strapless top. It emphasized her slender arms and graceful shoulders, and when she moved, a sliver of her waist was visible between her top and her suit trousers.

Crane rolled his eyes. He preferred her when she used her  _ brain _ to get what she wanted out of men.

"I'm thinkin' a quick round of good cop bad cop," the Joker drawled, watching Harleen pad barefoot over to the wall to pick up the as-of-yet-unused baseball bat resting there.

"What's his name?" Harleen asked, spinning the bat in her hand like a batter winding up as she squared off with the Russian.

" _ Sven," _ the Joker purred, cocking his head to the side, a smile playing at his mouth like he was settling in to watch something riveting.

Crane frowned and looked between them, unsure what to expect.

"Sven, huh," Harleen mused, eyeing the drooping Russian critically. Then she lifted her leg and kicked him in the chest,  _ hard _ , using the force of her entire body to send the chair flying back.

Sven landed on the ground, groaning loudly, and Harleen lept on top of him. She swung the baseball bat at his knees with a  _ CRACK! _ , pulling a wail of pain out of him before she started beating his flailing legs mercilessly with wide, vicious swings.

Unlike the Joker, Harleen beat Sven with all the rage of a wrathful siren, her face contorting as she panted and bared her teeth, fully exerting herself while Sven wailed and moaned on the floor under her assault.

It was startling and frightening, and very, _ very _ unexpected seeing her devolve into what could only be described as a hurricane of violence. Crane watched wide-eyed, trying to reconcile the woman he knew with this snarling creature who was quite obviously taking out her own frustration on poor Sven.

Crane turned to look at the Joker, who was rocking back on his heels like he was struggling to stand still while he watched her. His eyes were hooded and his head tipped back, his tongue snaking out to swipe over his bottom lip.

God, this was like  _ foreplay _ for them.

Harleen stepped back, panting as she brushed her hair over her shoulder, then tossed the bat aside. She dropped to her knees beside Sven, launching into girlish pleading for him to stay awake, stay alive, that she couldn't lose him, saying his name repeatedly and begging him to look at her. She was reassuring him that if he told her—just  _ her _ —the boss's name, they could go home together and she would take care of him. That was all she wanted.

Crane made a face and looked at the Joker to ask him if this had worked before, but the Joker held a paint-smeared finger to his lips, shushing Crane before he went back to watching Harleen plead with the Russian.

After a few minutes, she switched back to the snarling siren again, producing a switchblade from her bodice and flicking it open with a  _ swick!  _ She stabbed Sven over and over again, her face composed in ice-cold indifference as the short blade sank into Sven's chest and stomach and arms, making him scream like he was  _ horrified _ by what was happening to him.

The Joker slid one hand behind his neck, his red lips pressed together, watching her ‘work’ like he was on the edge of his seat.

She dropped the knife and bent over Sven again, picking up the begging and pleading. And this time he replied. He was talking, telling her he couldn't tell her, that the boss made him promise, that he'd seen what the boss did to people when they talked, or even if they  _ didn’t _ talk. He was more frightened of her than the big boss, Crane realized, watching her hop to her feet and pick up the baseball bat again.

She started beating Sven again, breaking his arm, his kneecaps, stomping on his chest where she'd stabbed him.

The Joker sighed happily.

Harleen dropped the baseball bat, letting it rattle across the floorboards as she breezed up to the torture station and picked up the power drill. Crane watched her catch the Joker's eye, their expressions mutually impassive, though the Joker's melted into a dreamy smile again when she turned her back on him and strode back to Sven. She set the power drill to the side and slipped back into girlish pleading again, and Sven once again tried to explain, sobbing horrifically, that he couldn't tell her what she needed to know.

Harley sat back on her heels, sighing in frustration as she picked up the power drill and thumbed the button experimentally, watching the bit spin and make a noisy grinding sound. Then she grabbed Sven by the bloodied collar of his formerly pristine shirt, holding the power drill up to his face as she switched tactics. She swore and spit at him, demanding he tell her the boss's name, threatening him  _ very _ creatively, holding the drill up to his face and turning it on a centimeter away from his eyeball. Following that she went for his nose, shoving the drill up one nostril and getting in his face.

Then she stopped, her shoulders freezing as Sven whimpered something in her ear. She sat back and looked at the Joker, who tried to smother a delighted smirk.

She turned back to Sven, frowning briefly, then turned on the drill and shoved the bit up his nose into his skull. 

There was an awful shriek, a  _ CRACK _ , and a  _ splatter. _

Harleen stood up, leaving the drill sticking out of Sven's face. She clicked her tongue unhappily as she frowned down at the blood spray covering her chest and neck, then looked up at the Joker, her expression grim.

"What?" he asked warily, the lovesick smile on his face fading.

Harleen shot Crane a wary look, obviously thinking he couldn't be trusted before she turned to the Joker.

"Black Mask," she said, a line forming between her eyebrows. "He said his boss's name is Black Mask."

"That's not a name," Crane sneered.

"It is if it's the only name his men know him by," Harleen snapped, gesturing to the Joker to make her point. Then she rolled her shoulders back, looking  _ concerned _ . "Sly said the man who shook him down was wearing a black mask."

"Sly?" Crane asked, but neither of them bothered to fill him in.

"Hmm," the Joker palmed his jacket for his cigarettes, squinting at Sven as he popped a one between his lips and lit it with the silver zippo. "So, the big boss wears a mask," he exhaled a stream of smoke. "Wonder who he's hiding from."

"Masks aren't always for hiding," Harleen caught the Joker’s eye, something unspoken passing between them. "They give you power too."

Then she shook her head, sighing impatiently as she bent down to pick up her knife. "I need to get to this fundraiser, and I need to not be covered in blood."

The Joker grabbed the crusty towel smeared with paint and blood he'd been using to clean himself up with over the course of the day and tossed it to her. Harleen caught it easily, wiping Sven's blood from her neck and the knife, then folded it closed and slipped it back in her bodice.

"Alright, I have to go," she announced, shrugging her jacket back on and stepping into her heels as she eyeballed the Joker warily. "I'll let you know if Hill has any black masks on hand."

"Peachy," he drawled lazily.

Harleen held his gaze ba moment longer, then fastened the button on her jacket and turned to leave.

Crane watched the Joker watch her walk away, his head tipping to the side as he stared at her ass, humming happily under his breath.

"My God," Crane sneered once Harleen had slammed the loft door shut again.

"What?" the Joker chuckled, doing a poor job of feigning innocence.

"Are you  _ aroused  _ after all of that?" Crane demanded incredulously, making the Joker giggle quietly like he was  _ genuinely _ amused.

Then he sighed and waved a hand at the door Harleen had just exited through. "Are you telling me you're  _ not? _ "

"Shockingly, no," Crane replied drolly. "I do not find psychotic acts of violence arousing."

" _ Nahhhh _ ," the Joker raked his hair off his face as he smoked thoughtfully. "She’s like a force of  _ nature  _ coming right for you… no  _ breaks _ , no  _ limits _ ." He closed his eyes and pretended to shiver. “Mmm…”

"A force of nature," Crane’s lip curled. “I think you are confusing psychosis for passion.”

“Uh huh,” the Joker flashed Crane a patronizing smirk. “Maybe you’re just a little too uh…  _ repressed _ to understand how it translates into more  _ grown-up  _ situations.”

Crane shifted uncomfortably, disliking the conversation.

“I thought you found her disappointing,” he countered pettily. "Besides, she didn't seem very happy to see you.”

The Joker shrugged helplessly, looking a little dreamy again.

* * *

Frost was waiting for Harley in front of the warehouse with the town car. It had taken some very specific evasive driving to get down there—including hopping in and out of a pair of cabs—before they lost the silver BMW tailing them—the same one from the night before. But when it came to evasive driving, Frost was remarkably efficient. Harley suspected it was that former military career turning its head.

She was late for the fundraiser and she smelled like blood, but it had been a very productive detour. Now they had a name. Black Mask. A name as mysterious as the boss himself. It reminded her of the night at the Iceberg Lounge, convinced she'd seen him there in Lucy's stupid birdcage, his face a blurred hallucination brought on by the blue poppy.

From Sven's lack of candor, it was clear Black Mask had a firm grip on his men and their loyalty. Maybe not  _ real _ conditioning, like what Harley suspected had happened to Victor, his turnabout from sick predator to goofy bodyguard too startling to be attributed to loyalty alone. Lucy's comment about the boss 'having a chat with him' made even more sense if that was the case. 

"What time should I pick ya up, doc?" Frost asked as Harley climbed out of the town car in front of Wayne Hall.

"It depends on who's here and how it goes," Harley replied. "Stick close by, get some food or something."

"You got it, doc," Frost nodded, then glanced in his rearview mirror before he looked at her again. "No tail yet."

Harley nodded uncertainty, hoping her babysitters had dropped the ball and didn't know she was at the fundraiser, which meant Hill wouldn’t know she was coming. Reeves would have been able to spot her, but he’d more than likely spent the day getting his finger reattached, not checking the guest list.

Harley strode up the front steps of Wayne Hall where a red carpet had been laid out, but she’d missed the reporters and wealthy people posing for pictures. In the reception area there was a long table, a woman with a clipboard waiting there for the stragglers.

"Hello," Harley drawled, affecting a trans-atlantic accent as she plastered on a smile. "Peaches Kane."

"Good evening, Ms Kane," the woman beamed, checking her clipboard then picking up a credit card reader. "And how much would you like to donate tonight?"

Harley feigned thoughtfulness as she plucked the black AMEX out of her clutch and handed it over.

"Let's make it fifty thousand," she smiled at the woman, whose eyes widened.

"Oh, I see," she stuttered, typing the figure into the card reader and swiping the AMEX, then handing it back to Harley. "Dinner is about to start, but with a donation that size Mr Hill will want to meet you."

"I have time now," Harley smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"I'll just check, ma'am," the woman nodded eagerly before she disappeared down a hallway.

Harley rocked back on her heels as she waited, her mind drifting back to the warehouse. She couldn't decide if the Joker intentionally failed to get a name out of Sven because he wanted to see her do it. She'd been a little bit annoyed at being  _ summoned _ , but not as much as she'd pretended for Crane's sake, knowing it would keep him happy to see them bickering even though they'd come to at least a tentative truce, the almost-flirtatious texting from the night before confusing matters.

There was one little cog in the works. The same one that was always there. The ridiculously strong physical attraction that was  _ constantly _ lingering between her and the Joker. And the way he looked at her while she'd tortured Sven had been...

Like he was thinking about fucking her. Very creatively.

Harley's imagination could fill in the rest.

She sighed and looked around, hoping for a distraction. Now was hardly the time to be thinking about him that way, not when they had much bigger problems on their hands and were supposed to be separated. It was a distraction.

The woman returned, beaming at Harley again. "This way, Ms Kane."

Harley followed her down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. The back of the building was dusty and unused, the furniture and carpet leftovers from another era. It seemed Wayne Hall had only recently re-opened, probably one of Hill's projects to clean up Downtown for the sake of gentrification. 

The ground floor was a large circular room that looked in better condition, with a stage and a velvet curtain, the floors recently buffered wood and the chandeliers sparkling. The upper levels were lined with box seats yet to be freshened up, all of them looking down on the main floor where the wealthy were mingling and settling down in anticipation of Hamilton Hill's Make Gotham Great Again speech.

Harley was taken to a large reception room behind the box seats on the upper level, a cob-web-ridden chandelier hanging above and two dusty old bars flanking the room. There were a pair of brand new leather sofas facing each other with a Persian carpet between them, and a gilded bar cart packed with an ice bucket and crystal cut decanters.

Hill was waiting for her beside the bar cart.

"Ms Kane," he greeted her, spreading his arms wide as he smiled, apparently not remembering her from the Tobacconist's Club. Unless he was hiding it—the boss would have hid it. "How can I thank you for your very gracious donation? A drink, perhaps? Champagne?"

"Whiskey if you have it," Harley smiled back at him, applying a transatlantic accent again, the kind no one used anymore. The big boss would be smart enough to pick up on that. Hill took it in stride.

"Very well," he grinned, pouring them each a drink as Harley took a seat, crossing her legs as she accepted the drink. "We have a few Kanes here tonight," Hill continued. "Relations of yours?"

"Distantly related. My family is from London," Harley improvised, still smiling.

"Ah, I see," Hill nodded. "Now, I don't have as much time as I would like to speak to you, but normally when someone I don't know donates a sum like that, I have to assume it's to get face time with me."

"You're correct, Mr Hill," Harley replied breezily. "I work for a philanthropic group encouraging public servants to invest in green energy to combat the climate crisis," she said, repeating one of Pam's lines verbatim.

"Ahh, I see," Hill chuckled, hunkering forward and offering her a smirk. "You're old money, aren't you."

"I don't see how that's relevant," Harley smiled.

"Of course it is," Hill countered boorishly. "Philanthropy is the work of those who don't  _ need _ to work. You see, the problem with climate change  _ alarmists _ is they don't take the economy into consideration. And you, who don't have to work or worry about the economy, you're especially immune to those consequences."

"Well that's ridiculous," Harley pictured how Pam would react. "There’s plenty of money to be made in green energy. There are market-based solutions to the climate crisis."

"Not as much money as there is in oil, my dear," Hill countered gently, trying not to patronize a woman who just handed over fifty grand.

"I suppose you advise your clients similarly," Harley offered him a pinched smile, letting him know she was offended.

"I don't discuss my clients," he replied smoothly. "Airtight NDAs are a necessary evil in the consulting world."

As is buddying up to dictators and terrorists, Harley thought wryly.

"And I am not here to discuss your clients or your business dealings," she explained with a pretty smile. "Only to discuss how you might... inspire people and encourage awareness as Mayor of Gotham."

"Inspire people?" Hill raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

“Superficial gestures that make it difficult for your liberal opponents to find fault,” Harley improvised, remembering one especially virulent rant from Pam. She offered him a sympathetic smile. "We all know how public opinion is changing on the issue."

"My dear, you have a bit of a politician about you!" Hill laughed boorishly, impressed. “You're not wrong— meaningless gestures frequently improve a man’s public image.”

That was the moment Harley knew. This man was not concerned with running the city from top to bottom. He wasn't interested in holding the reigns of power while hiding behind the scenes. He was greedy and vain, and only interested in having his ego massaged. He had a black belt in bullshit, but not the ruthlessness Black Mask had shown himself capable of.

Harley almost stood up to leave, having gotten what she came for, but then Hill checked his watch.

"Listen, Ms Kane, I would love to discuss this further with you, but it's time to give my speech," he set his drink aside and stood, and Harley did the same. "I'm afraid my campaign manager isn't here this evening - a medical emergency."

"Aw," Harley cooed sympathetically.

"But why don't you give my secretary a call," he handed her a card. "And we'll get something set up before the election. I have a rally coming up in a few days, maybe I can squeeze something in for you."

"Wonderful," Harley smiled at him, her face aching as she shook his hand. "I look forward to it."

"Enjoy your night," Hill simpered.

Harley turned around, the smile dropping off her face as she walked away.

She considered her next move. Part of her wanted to run back to the safe house to scratch Hill's name off the murder board, but she was in the fundraiser now, she might as well poke around and see who else was there.

They'd put her at a table right in front of the stage, sitting next to her was no less than Bobby Kane. He was already drunk as he leaned on his fist and ogled Harley. 

"Kane, huh," he slurred, obviously not remembering despite the  _ many _ times they’d been in the same room together. "Are we like cousins or what?"

"Martha Wayne was my mother's cousin," Harley bullshitted.

"Martha Wayne was my mother's cousin too," Bobby waggled his eyebrows as if being distant relations was sexy.

Harley rolled her eyes and grabbed a glass of water as she looked around the room, wondering if she'd spot Roman and his weird fiance Circe, or anyone else interesting. But she didn't. Disappointed, she tucked into the free steak dinner, figuring she may as well take advantage of the opportunity for sustenance.

Hill appeared on stage just as dessert was winding down, wearing one of his red Make Gotham Great Again caps and throwing up Nixon-style peace signs to claps from the trust fund brigade, some of them more enthusiastic than others. The house lights dimmed, and Harley folded her arms as she watched Hill spout his usual bullshit. Her mind drifted back to the Joker and the way he'd looked at her earlier, knowing instinctively what he’d been thinking about doing to her. 

Probably quite slowly and  _ deliberately _ .

But never, ever  _ gently _ . 

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

Very,  _ very  _ unhelpful.

Then about halfway into Hill's speech, the stage lights suddenly snapped off, submerging the room in darkness. The trust fund brigade started chattering nervously as Hill tried to reassure them from the stage that it was probably a technical malfunction.

Then his mic cut out, and a new voice started speaking over the sound system.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," the disembodied voice purred around them. "How about a riddle?"

Harley's eyes widened in disbelief as she sat up straight.

No fucking way. 

_ The Riddler.  _

There was a throaty chuckle through the room’s speakers, and people started to panic as they realized what was happening. 

_ "I'll shrink your mind, and rip out your tongue _

_ I'm a clown's paramour and incite chaos for fun...  _

_ Who am I?" _

Harley jumped to her feet, grabbing the steak knife off her plate. She spun around in a full circle as she searched for the Riddler among the panicking guests, bracing herself. 

"Don't worry, folks…” he growled. “I'll give you the answer this time..."

Suddenly a spotlight from the rafters snapped on. It rotated forward onto the crowd, landing squarely on Harley, blinding her and illuminating her for the whole room to see.

"A  _ Harlequin _ ," the Riddler hissed, his voice echoing around them.

Harley froze, her eyes darting between the faces staring back at her. She could feel the whole room staring at her, her flimsy disguise stripped away as the Riddler revealed her to them. A woman screamed and a few men shouted about stopping her, and then a body jumped in front of her, a camera flashing as someone tried to take her picture, throwing Harley into action.

She grabbed the camera and yanked the photographer forward, stabbing him in the shoulder with the steak knife and kneeing him in the balls. She ripped the camera off him and threw it on the ground, stomping on it with her heel.

The sound of a mic dropping ricocheted around the room—the Riddler was making a run for it.

With a frustrated growl, Harley bolted for the stage, vaulting onto it and shoving a stunned-looking Hill aside as she sprinted for the curtain— in part to escape the prying eyes of the trust fund brigade, but more because she needed to get to the Riddler. He was no Black Mask. He was no Joker. But he was here,  _ presenting  _ himself to her.

Harley burst into the backstage area, which was dusty and cob-webbed like the upper floors of the Hall, old props and curtains lying forgotten in piles. She looked around frantically then darted through an open door into a hallway lined with dressing rooms, all of their lights on. At the end of the hallway was a fire exit, but it was closed—he was still there.

Harley crept down the hallway, listening carefully over the blood rushing in her ears. She passed one dressing room, her eyes sweeping it and finding it empty before she moved onto the next. Her heart was thumping wildly, sending adrenaline rushing through her veins, heightening her senses, and making her light on her toes, making her body vibrate with excitement that almost bordered on erotic.

_ Finally _ .

She got to the second dressing room, but before she could peer inside, a man wearing a white dinner jacket and a bowler hat came barrelling out, slamming Harley up against the opposite wall. 

He was tall, much taller than she was, even in heels. And he had his hands around her throat before she could get to the knife in her bodice. Harley scowled as she looked up at his face, a solid black rectangle around his eyes and the bridge of his nose obscuring his identity. 

This was the reason she'd come back to Gotham. This was the moment she'd been waiting for.

She headbutted him, making the Riddler grunt as he stumbled back, putting enough space between them that Harley could kick him in the chest, throwing him across the hallway. He hit the wall hard, gasping as his hand flew to his chest, and Harley launched herself at him, ripping the switchblade out of her bodice and flicking it open. She grabbed a handful of the Riddler’s dinner jacket and held the knife to his throat but he caught her wrist before she could cut him, baring his teeth.

His teeth were straight and pearly white.

He was stronger than he looked, surprising Harley as he forced her arm back, pushing the knife away from his neck. Harley went for his knee before he could get the upper hand, making his leg give out. She punched him in the eye as he started to fall, then kicked him in the chest again, sending him sprawling back on the floor.

She jumped on top of him, sitting on his chest and preparing to slash his throat, but he backhanded her before she could attack. Her head snapped to the side as pain exploded across the bottom half of her face, and she dropped the knife. Before she could recover, the Riddler flipped her onto her back like a wrestler. 

Then his hands around her throat again, crushing her windpipe while she struggled and bucked against him. 

Harley clawed at his hands and the sleeves of his white dinner jacket, growing light-headed from an excess of endocrine and lack of oxygen. She opened her mouth to protest, her lips moving wordlessly as she stared into the Riddler’s blackened eyes, feeling herself start to lose consciousness.

Growing desperate, she groped the floor around her, searching for something to save herself. Her hand closed around the handle of her knife, triumph giving her a burst of strength. She swung the short blade at the Riddler’s side, baring her teeth and stabbing him twice.

He yelped, an unexpectedly feminine sound, and lurched sideways,, landing on the floor beside her. 

Harley sucked in a deep, painful breath, oxygen flooding her brain as she started to cough and sputter. She felt weak and sluggish, trapped on her back like a turtle while the Riddler struggled to his feet. He had to use the wall to keep himself upright as he staggered forward a few steps, trying and failing to yank the knife out of his side as a scarlet stain rapidly spread across his dinner jacket.

Harley rolled onto her stomach, taking deep wheezing breaths through her aching throat as she forced herself up to her hands and knees. She crawled forward a few inches while the Riddler stumbled toward the fire exit, limping and clutching his side, finally getting the knife out and throwing it down just as he shoved the door open and fell out into the alley.

Harley managed to get to her feet, clutching her throat as she limped after him. She fell against the wall and started to slip down just as the fire door slammed shut. It took her two tries to get back up to her feet before she threw her full weight on the fire door only to find the alley outside was empty, the Riddler long gone.

She panted weakly, her head spinning. Then police sirens started wailing nearby, coming to rescue the trust fund brigade, spurring Harley to swoop down and grab her knife before she hobbled out into the alley. 

She spotted a pile of white at one end. The Riddler's bloodied dinner jacket. He'd ditched it so he wouldn't draw attention. Harley grabbed the jacket and lurched out onto the street, knowing she couldn’t stick around to wait for Frost to pick her up. 

She held her chin up, breathing deeply through her nose, and forcing herself to walk normally. Blend in. It was 10 PM and she was Downtown, but where she stood she could see the Crowne Building only six blocks north. She pulled the burner out of her clutch as she pushed herself forward and called the Joker.

"Well  _ fancy  _ that," he purred into the phone.

"I need to get into the honeymoon suite," Harley croaked, her voice strained as she staggered up the street.

"Where are you?" he snapped, his voice low and impatient.

"Close," Harley gasped, realizing he was at the honeymoon suite with Lonnie. 

She hung up and shoved the phone back in her clutch, doubling her pace as she held the Riddler's jacket close.

* * *

The Falcone penthouse was palatial, but it was no longer the ice-queen-palace Sofia Falcone and her fat husband Vito turned it into during their tenure there. Instead of glass and chrome there was mango wood and soft furnishings. Instead of stiff, uncomfortably chic couches, there were Bauhaus designs, both practical and beautiful. Instead of cold white marble, there was Scandinavian-style warmth.

Circe redecorated the penthouse for Roman when Mario and Alberto rejected it. Too many bad memories from childhood, Mario admitted, while Alberto smoked in disdainful silence as he always did. Historically, it made more sense for Roman to live there.

Tonight the penthouse smelled like the chocolate-chip cookies Circe was baking, warm and delicious. Reeves sat on a comfortable stool in the kitchen, holding his hand aloft as he'd been doing for almost twenty-four hours since Harley Quinn cut off his finger. He hadn't slept, his handsome face haggard with dark circles under his eyes, his suit rumpled and bloodstained, his tie hanging loose as he stared miserably at Circe bustling around the kitchen in her apron and slippers.

No pain killers, Roman instructed, so Reeves had turned them down throughout the entire painful process of having his finger reattached. He felt like he was dying.

Roman was sitting on the stool across from him, his elbow planted on the bar as he listened to Reeves recount what happened at the Iceberg Lounge the night before.

"You really thought she was going to sleep with you?" Roman asked, looking amused.

Reeves swallowed thickly. "You said if the opportunity came up I should take it and tell you what it was like."

"Well, yeah, but..." Roman smiled and shook his head, holding his hands up. "It doesn't matter. What happened next?"

"She was angry I told you about her," Reeves said shakily, staring at his bandaged hand. "She held a knife to my throat.”

"Sure," Roman nodded. "Very on-brand for her."

“And then,” Reeves inhaled sharply, the pain of his missing finger making him dizzy when he thought about what came next. “And then she… cut off my finger… she grabbed my face and shoved it in my mouth.”

Roman's large eyes widened, his smile growing.

"Seriously?" He laughed, looking both incredulous and delighted. “I mean, you hear that threat thrown around, ‘I’ll cut ‘X’ off and feed it to you’, but people don’t really  _ do _ it.”

Reeves nodded, feeling sick. “She also said, if we fuck with her…” He met Roman’s eye. “We’ll regret it.” 

Roman groaned and threw both hands over his heart, clutching his shirt as he spun around on the stool. When he turned back to Reeves he was smiling contentedly, rubbing his chest like his heart was aching.

"God, she's perfect," he chuckled, grinning. 

"But, Roman," Reeves sputtered. "She knows about me now. What about Helen and the baby? What if she—"

"Arthur, I  _ gave _ you Helen," Roman pointed out, raising a knowing eyebrow. "And by extension, I gave you that fetus too. If Harley kills them," he shrugged helplessly. "That's the price we pay."

Reeves' broad shoulders trembled but he nodded weakly.

Roman hopped off his stool and started pacing, rubbing one hand over his sharp jaw. 

"She had to know you would tell me this," he decided, wagging a finger at Reeves but not looking at him. "She’s telling me I don’t know what she’s capable of… And, hell, I  _ believe _ her.”

Reeves fought back a sniffle, not following.

" _ God _ ," Roman sighed indulgently. "You know, Arthur, I did not see this coming.” He bit his lip, shaking his head. "I have to have her," he shrugged as if it was inevitable.

When he looked to Reeves for feedback, Reeves could only nod nervously, not sure what else he could say. This was uncharted territory. He had been Roman's proxy for years, ever since they were boys in prep school together, and he had always been rewarded for performing as instructed. This time, his instructions had been to charm and entertain a bored Harley Quinn. To gather information and make her more amenable to being recruited, as he’d done for Roman many times before.

But this was different. This was more dangerous than anything they'd done yet. But Reeves had never seen Roman happier.

And Arthur Reeves lived to make his best and oldest friend happy. 

"I can't have any distractions or…  _ complications _ ," Roman decided, opening a drawer and retrieving a pistol with a suppressor already attached. "I need her by my side if we’re going to expand beyond this hell hole of a city.” 

Circe pulled her baking tray of cookies out of the oven, beaming sweetly as she presented them to Roman.

Roman sighed reluctantly, his eyes rolling over Circe before he raised the pistol and shot her twice in the chest— _ zip!-zip! _

Circe’s eyes widened but she didn’t scream. She staggered back against the oven, the cookies tumbling out of her hands as twin blossoms of blood bloomed scarlet on her white apron. She released a small, surprised pant before her legs gave out, and she slid down the mango-wood shelving to the floor.

Reeves stared at the spot where Circe had been standing, too shocked to do or say anything as Roman slapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"There, now if Harley kills Helen, we can grieve together," he smiled down at Reeves, and Reeves could only nod weakly, feeling like he was about to vomit.

“You know why I need her, don’t you, Arthur?” Roman asked, fixing Reeves with a pointed look. “You understand what it’ll do for our work?”

Reeves nodded weakly.

“It’s going to be a nightmare convincing John,” Roman added thoughtfully, before shrugging. “But I can respect him for wanting to be cautious.” 

Roman's phone started to ring. 

"Hamilton, how did it go?" he answered jovially.

From where he was sitting, Reeves could hear Hamilton Hill blustering on the other end of the line, sounding furious. Roman looked amused, and then delighted, and then mildly displeased as Hill raged in his ear before shifting back to amused again.

"Look at it this way, they've given you more ammunition for the freaks in masks rhetoric," he placated. "I'll have a word with security to find out what happened, but I think this is a win for us, Hamilton."

Roman tucked his phone away once he'd finished placating Hill, then turned to grin at Reeves, his deep-set eyes shining.

"Harley was at the fundraiser,” he beamed. “She sat down with Hill to talk about electric buses and solar panels. He had  _ no  _ idea it was her," Roman laughed incredulously before he pointed at Reeves' finger. "That wasn't just a message, that was to get you out of the way so she could talk to Hill."

Reeves paled, realizing this meant he'd failed.

"Harley played you, Arthur," Roman continued cheerfully. "I think she deserves what she took from you."

Reeves bit down on his tongue so he wouldn't scream as Roman unwrapped the bandages around his hand. He pinched the tip of Reeves’ recently reattached finger, and snapped the digit off, ignoring Reeves' pained whining. Then he walked over to the kitchen sink, and dropped it down the garbage disposal, flipping the switch at the wall for a few seconds before turning back around to give Reeves another patient smile.

"Go get that fixed up, Arthur," he directed, pointing at Reeves' mutilated hand as he stepped over Circe’s body and picked up a cookie, considering it carefully. "I have to go deal with Ed now," he frowned and took a bite of the cookie, his eyes rolling up in his head as he hummed happily.

Reeves started to climb off the stool, clutching his hand to his chest.

"Do you think Harley can bake?" Roman asked suddenly, frowning at the half-eaten cookie. Then he laughed quietly. "Probably not, but I'm sure we can fix that too."

* * *

**A/N: ooooooooooh shit.**

**That last scene gives me chills and I freaking wrote it…**

**So... what a chapter, right? We have: J drooling over Harley in torture mode. We have Ed vs Harley even if she doesn’t know it. We have Roman being as creepy as humanly possible, including this intensely unsettling dynamic with Reeves.  
**

**I want there to be this tension between Harley and Roman that comes down to control but isn’t sexual/romantic. We'll see if that lands, haha.**

**Quite a lot got revealed in that one scene with Reeves... :D**

**Um, head over to tumblr if you'd like a clue as to what really happened to Victor. I'm[knit-wear-it](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/knit-wear-it). **

**_Next: Harley and J get a lead on the Riddler, and we find out more about Ed's 'motivation'._ **

**Please comment or review! I love this chapter, and I'm really looking forward to hearing from you guys on it :)**


	9. Chapter 9

_ **Previously: The Riddler attacks Harley at Hamilton Hill's fundraiser. Harley and the Joker are slowly mending fences as they try to find the big boss.** _

_**Theme: Iggy Pop - 'Nightclubbing' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/6WPGAupim73K9XQL4iIefZ?si=RJ4mtXN2Sd2AgT_5UnI25Q)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/G3OaMZojJRg))** _

* * *

The Pantomime

9.

* * *

By the time Harley reached the Crowne Building, the stinging pain that came with each breath had subsided, or more likely, she was getting used to it. After being shot, stabbed, having her fingernails ripped off, limbs sprained, and many,  _ many _ beatings from Black Canary, a bruised throat wasn't something to cry about. But it still felt like an alarmingly close call, and  _ that _ stuck with her.

She headed for the Crowne Building's underground parking lot, where the building's residents kept their Ferrari's and their Lamborghinis. Remarkably, there was never a guard on duty to protect these outlandish treasures. 

Coughing and wheezing, Harley wound her way through the ostentatious cars to the far end of the garage and around a sharp corner where an elevator in a mahogany frame stood out of sight. She pressed the call button and looked up into the CCTV camera pointing down at her. The doors dinged open almost immediately, and she stepped inside, leaning against the gold-painted railing as she exhaled a painful sigh of relief.

After shooting up about forty floors, the elevator opened into the honeymoon suite. It was a large apartment or a small penthouse depending on how you wanted to classify it, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Gotham's iconic skyline. It was originally built as a  _ pied-a-terre _ for rich men cheating on their wives, with its private elevator tucked discreetly in the building’s parking garage. But it had since been co-opted by Lonnie Machin under the Joker's direction, a safe house only their inner circle knew about. That inner circle was rapidly shrinking now that Bruno and Marty were dead, though somehow Frost had managed to worm into their small group of late.

The Joker was leaning against the wall beside the elevator, wearing the same black suit he'd had on all week with a clean button-down shirt, his tie knotted but hanging loose. Harley looked up at him as she stepped out of the elevator, taking note that he'd recently had a shower, his hair damp, and not a trace of paint or blood on him. He'd obviously ditched Crane soon after she left the warehouse.

He frowned and prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he examined Harley's neck, then lifted a hand to brush his thumb over her bottom lip, making her pulse leap as he showed her the streak of blood he'd wiped away. She hadn't even noticed the tender area at the corner of her mouth where the Riddler backhanded her.

Harley pushed past J, confused instead of comforted by the intimate gesture. She kicked off her shoes and dropped the Riddler's dinner jacket and her clutch, then stomped into the honeymoon suite's living room, which as per usual, was a complete mess. 

Lonnie was sitting at his desk with three monitors facing him, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in his lap. The flat-screen TV over his head was showing the news, flashing police lights and people in formal wear looking horrified outside Wayne Hall. Hamilton Hill was front and center, giving reporters his spiel about freaks in masks.

"What up,  _ Marge _ ," Lonnie greeted her, spinning in his chair as he shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. "There goes flying under the radar, huh."

Harley scowled at him on her way to the bathroom. "You are so lucky you're useful," she snapped.

Lonnie scoffed and muttered something about her being a  _ “tired-ass showgirl” _ as Harley slammed the bathroom door.

Like the rest of the honeymoon suite, the bathroom was an unholy mess, with cherubs painted on the ceiling, one of which had a bullet hole in its belly. Harley shucked her jacket and examined herself in the mirror, sighing at the magenta-colored bruises blossoming around her throat. They would be purple before morning. The corner of her mouth was swelling up too, already turning dark pink.

"Fuck," she muttered, turning the faucet on and splashing cold water on her face. Bruises on her neck and face were definitely going to get noticed.

The bathroom door opened, and the Joker slipped in, catching Harley's eye in the mirror. Harley looked away first, focusing on her injuries, but hyper-aware of him creeping up behind her. He stopped about an inch shy of her, then laid his hand on her bare shoulder, his thumb swiping over the tendon where her shoulder met her neck, making Harley stiffen.

She wasn't sure if she was still pissed off at him or just too stressed out to deal with him, though he clearly was making an effort to expand their truce, and maybe even fix things between them. But Harley was resisting. Because she was a stubborn ass, and right now, being stubborn was something to cling to when everything else was spinning out of control.

Harley sighed unhappily, and the Joker released her shoulder, swinging back to lean against the wall. He grabbed his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, pulling one out of the pack with his teeth while Harley watched in the mirror.

"So," he said around the cigarette, lighting it with the zippo. "What happened?" He exhaled a cloud of smoke and lifted an eyebrow as Harley turned to face him.

"Well, Hill isn't the big boss, and he didn't know who I was," she started, her eyes lingering on the lighter as he tucked it back in his jacket. "Reeves was in the hospital all day because I cut his finger off last night," she added, making the Joker chuckle throatily. "Frost shook our tail before we got to the fundraiser, so no one knew I was going." Her face soured. "Whoever the Riddler is... he must have been there already."

"No one  _ interesting _ catch your eye?" the Joker asked slyly.

"Trust fund brigade, waiters, bartenders..." Harley made a face. "No one  _ obvious _ ."

Then she remembered the dinner jacket. She raced out of the bathroom, back into the foyer where the blood-stained garment was lying on the floor. Harley held it up triumphantly as the Joker wandered up behind her, one hand tucked in his front pocket as he smoked silently and watched her search the jacket.

"Yves Saint Lauren," she read the label and looked up at him, prompting J to make a face like she was crazy to ask him.

"French fashion house," Lonnie filled in in his best know-it-all voice. "Super fucking expensive. That jacket probably cost a couple grand."

"How the hell do you know that?" Harley asked, bewildered.

"Cause J asked me to look into the Riddler, and he always wears super expensive shit," Lonnie shot her a dirty look. "Gucci at the Contemporary Art Gallery last week, Christian Dior at the Flughelheim, Prada at the GMMA. Every time he's caught on camera, it's something different. The dude's a fashion whore."

"So...  _ not _ a bartender," the Joker drawled while Harley poked through the jacket's pockets. She found a credit card receipt covered in splotches of blood, but she could still make out a name and the last four digits of a credit card number.

"E Nygma," she read the name, frowning. Then looked up at the Joker. "Enigma?"

"Is that seriously a  _ credit card _ receipt?" Lonnie demanded, holding out his tattooed hand expectantly. Harley hesitated before passing it to him, and Lonnie immediately spun back around to his computer, looking between the receipt and the monitor as he typed furiously.

"Can you get something from that?" Harley asked dubiously.

"Weird ass name and part of his credit card number?" Lonnie scoffed. "MasterCard's backend security is basic as shit. It shouldn't take too long to get a billing address."

He struck a key, making rows of code start streaming across the monitor screen, then looked up at the Joker hopefully, like a dog waiting for praise after doing a trick. 

"Wanna hear about Hill and Sionis?" he asked eagerly.

The Joker made a flippant gesture for Lonnie to continue while Harley leaned against one of the white sofas, bracing her hands behind her.

"Hill is all over the fucking place," Lonnie started. "I mean google alone, his socials, his  _ kids' _ socials. Did you know his daughter is on the new season of Made in the Diamond District? They're just out there for the world to see."

"We already know that," Harley snapped. “You couldn’t come up with something better than a google search?” 

"If you would just hold your fucking horses,  _ Harley _ , I'm getting to it," Lonnie scowled. "I hacked Hill Consulting, and yeah, there is a shitton of shady stuff on their books. All of it’s technically legal, all of it quiet under NDAs." He struck a few keys on his laptop. "Yemen, Saudi Arabia, China, the Congo, Russia. Hill’s making a mint advising wannabe-dictators and authoritarian regimes."

"Doesn't that make them foreign agents?" Harley asked.

"Nah, it makes them capitalists," Lonnie sneered. "They advise all the big dogs here in Gotham too: Crowne, Kane, Elliott, Dagget. Wayne, too, up until about three years ago when Bruce Wayne came back and bought up all their stock to put his own CEO in place."

"We already know that too," Harley complained. 

Lonnie sputtered indignantly.

"Fine, how about this," he tried again."Sionis is on their books as a senior advisor, makes four-hundred-grand a year plus bonuses according to their HR department, but otherwise, he's a ghost. No emails to or from him, no mention of him on any of their accounts, no nothing," Lonnie shrugged. "I found a social security number and a tax ID for him, but his address is in fucking Monaco. Pays all his taxes here, too. But that dude had himself electronically scrubbed. Professionally."

"What does that mean?" Harley frowned.

"Means he doesn't want anyone to know anything about him," Lonnie explained. "But if he's some top earner dealing with all that dark dictator shit, no fucking wonder. It's not that unusual for these millionaire douchebags to keep a light presence online." 

Harley exhaled through her teeth, frustrated.

"So you're telling me… all you've found is an abundance of evidence that these men are nothing more than morally bankrupt but squeaky clean businessmen who just  _ happen _ to socialize with mobsters?" 

Lonnie huffed unhappily but didn't say anything.

"I guess this means I'm going back to the fucking Iceberg Lounge," Harley complained bitterly.

She ran her fingers over her throat, pressing the tender area as she tried to make a plan— _ any  _ plan— and realized she had  _ no _ idea what her next move should be. 

“You don’t know anything, we don’t know anything, Crane doesn’t know anything,” Harley threw her hands up. “We’re all in the fucking dark, and all we know is they _want_ something from us, and we don’t even fucking know what that _is_ or who they _are_ or what they’re _even_ _CAPABLE OF_!”

Her voice rose a few octaves, the adrenaline rolling through her since her encounter with the Riddler spiking fresh as an unfamiliar fissure of  _ fear _ raced up her spine. Harley stomped into the kitchen, needing to get away from Lonnie and the Joker, who were staring at her like she’d grown a second head. 

But the Joker followed her, and once they were out of Lonnie’s line of sight, he grabbed her arm and whipped her around, nearly pulling it out of the socket.

" _ Stop," _ he snapped impatiently, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. His fingers dug into the tender corner of her mouth, but instead of making her flinch, it helped ground her, helped her focus on him. "You don’t know shit, and yer letting it drive you  _ crazy _ ," he told her harshly. “Get over it and  _ do _ something.”

Harley stared back at him, the intensity of his dark eyes making her feel like he was staring into her soul. And he was so close, closer than he'd been in weeks. She could smell him, not just the heavy layer of tobacco smoke constantly hovering, but that musky gunpowder-y smell that was him too. 

She nodded against his hand, but he didn't let her go, his eyes glued to her face, not finding her acquiescence good enough. Harley closed her eyes and took a deep, aching breath, willing herself to calm down, and when she opened her eyes, he was still close, and still staring at her intently, and still smelling like him. She nodded again, more resolutely this time, and he released her face, stepping away.

J raked a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he sighed like a man overworked, then loped back out to the living room.

Harley followed him, feeling rudderless and exhausted.

The Joker was standing beside Lonnie, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed as Lonnie chatted happily. He looked up when Harley stepped into the living room, raising an eyebrow at her.

"We got an address for E Nygma," the Joker said shortly, twisting his head to the side so he was looking at her out of one eye. "Wanna go get some answers?"

Harley chewed on her lip anxiously and nodded in agreement.

* * *

"Ouch!" Ed squealed, glaring at the nurse stitching his stab wound. "You did that on purpose!" He accused her, but she just ignored him, going about her task of snipping the thread and applying bandages.

The basement bar—aka the Vanderbilt Bar— of the Tobacconist's Club was usually dimly lit and hazy— _ very  _ old school—but for the sake of Ed's medical emergency, the house lights were turned all the way up, glaring bright.

He would have thought all that light would ruin the effect of Black Mask's, well,  _ mask _ , but he was just as gloomy and spooky in fluorescent as he was in candlelight. Right now, he was behind the basement’s small bar, watching the nurse patch Ed up.

"I think the Percocet's wearing off," Ed complained as she stood and removed her purple latex gloves, ignoring him. "Can I get like three more?"

"Edward," Black Mask said, drawing Ed's irate gaze. Ed dropped the camp whiny patient schtick, already growing bored with it as he settled for staring sourly at his benefactor. 

Unlike the Batman and Black Canary, Black Mask disguised his voice using a voice modifier like the teenage serial killers in  _ Scream _ . Actually, there was a lot about him that reminded Ed of the killers in that movie. Namely that he was a pretentious dick. Ed narrowed his eyes, picturing Billy Loomis behind the Black Mask.

Once the nurse was gone, Black Mask braced his elbows on the bar. "What happened tonight?" he asked calmly.

"Um, I did what you asked," Ed snapped, bored with Black Mask and his whole...  _ vibe _ . "You said make a scene and don't kill anyone, that's what I did." Ed stood up and planted his fists on his hips, ignoring the stinging pain in his side where Harley Quinn stabbed him with a short blade.  _ Twice _ . "And PS, I haven't gotten paid yet," he added caustically.

Black Mask pulled an iPhone out of his pocket and tapped the screen a few times, then put it away. Ed felt his phone beep with a notification in his pocket.  _ Money _ , he thought happily.

"Tell me what happened," Black Mask said, his synthetic voice vibrating, low but calm.

"I saw Harley walking around the fundraiser," Ed shrugged, easing himself onto a barstool and fighting back a wince. "I thought, hey, there's a good angle to make Hamilton Hill look good." He shot Black Mask a smirk, imagining the man beneath —whoever he was, possibly Billy Loomis from  _ Scream— _ expressing shock or maybe even awe. "Oh, that's right, BM," Ed lifted his chin triumphantly. "Almost every job I've done for you has panned out well for Hill in the media. I've figured you out! You want Hill to be Mayor!”

There was a pause before Black Mask nodded. "You are correct," he confirmed. "What happened next?"

Ed's face darkened, his triumphant moment ripped away so quickly.  _ Well F you, BM,  _ he thought bitterly.

"Nothing," he lied, huffing impatiently. "I gave a good samaritan an opening to take out Harley Quinn, and she took off running."

"You’ve met her before?" Black Mask asked, cocking his head to the side. “At the Iceberg Lounge?”

"Yeah, she comes by sometimes," Ed shrugged carelessly, playing dumb. "I danced with her a few times, served her drinks. Miss Lucy likes me to talk to the customers. That's why I'm her favorite." He rolled his eyes. Miss Lucy had become _so_ _boring_ too.

"What do you think of Harley?" Black Mask asked, his voice soft.

"She's hot and scary," Ed shrugged, still playing dumb. "What's not to like?"

There was a lot... a  _ lot _ more to Harley Quinn than hot and scary, and Ed really truly believed they'd shared a few moments where she saw there was more to him too. Like... she  _ understood _ him in some deep kismet way without even knowing who he really was, which just made it _ even _ better.

Ed had always liked her vibe when she was caught on camera or taking over the news stations, but it wasn’t until he met her in person that he  _ really _ understood. 

And now that he knew what a sassy little  _ so-and-so _ she was in real life, he hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to call her out… though he hadn’t  _ quite  _ thought it all the way through. Not well enough to prepare for her chasing him down with a knife. Ed was good in a fight, and he was strong, so he’d figured it’d be easy enough to immobilize her with some light,  _ friendly  _ breathplay. But… 

Oof. Boy, she hadn’t liked that. 

"Scary?" Black Mask asked. Maybe he was raising an eyebrow under that mask.

"I mean, you  _ did _ see Mayor Garcia get his head blown off on live television last year, right?" Ed narrowed his eyes. "Why are you so interested in her?"

"I believe you summed it up quite succinctly, Edward," Black Mask replied smoothly.

"Mmhmm." Ed sensed there was much more to that little nugget of interest. He decided to poke around. "And what about her boyfriend?"

"The Joker will not be a problem for long," Black Mask explained, sounding a little  _ peeved _ .

Oh, how  _ very _ interesting.

"Cool," Ed drawled, pretending not to care. "I think they're breaking up anyway. That's what Miss Lucy says."

"I am aware of Lucy's conversations with Harley," Black Mask agreed. "As I said, he won't be a problem for much longer."

Ed sighed and looked around the bar, searching for something interesting to inspire him. He was always searching for that cosmic little  _ something _ .

His eyes settled on the orange prescription pill bottle of Percocet on the bar top. Mmm... good enough.

"Are you ever gonna tell me who you really are?" Ed asked coyly, batting his eyelashes as he leaned across the bar. He snatched up the pill bottle, sighing dreamily. "Who's the man behind the mask? Come on, we're friends, aren't we BM?"

"Good night, Edward," Black Mask gestured to the elevator. "Enjoy your money."

Ed rolled his eyes again and limped off his stool, popping a couple more Percocet as he stepped into the elevator.

* * *

The billing address for the credit card was on the east side of Uptown in a crummy, yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood. It was a massive red brick apartment block from the 1930s, taking up an entire city block and stretching up twenty floors, its occupants a collection of artist-types and low-income families. 

There was no doorman, and at 2 AM it, was easy enough to slip in unnoticed through the front door. When they found the apartment on the third floor, the Joker knocked to see if anyone was home, then fished out a set of lock picks. He squatted down in front of the keyhole while Harley kept watch, a gun with a suppressor hidden behind her back in case of company.

The door swung in, and the Joker rose to his feet, glancing back at Harley before he stepped into the apartment's small entryway, keeping the lights off as Harley joined him, pulling the door partially closed behind her.

She turned on the flashlight function on Pam's phone, letting the beam bounce over a small spindly table covered in cactuses and mail. The Joker flipped through the mail, all bills and boring things for E Nygma. Nothing interesting.

They turned a corner to find a tiny studio apartment, and the Joker let out a low whistle as Harley's flashlight bounced around the room. Six clothing rails were taking up most of the space, packed to bursting with clothes. Clothes were falling out of dry-cleaning plastic wrap and garment bags. Clothes slung haphazardly over an unmade sofa bed, clothes draped across a small vanity. And the shoeboxes—a  _ tower _ of shoeboxes taking up an entire wall, spilling onto the counter of a small kitchenette. The paintings were there too—the huge Jackson Pollock work leaning against the pile of shoeboxes, the de Kooning work on display in the kitchenette.

This person was a collector, Harley realized. 

She wondered if he collected people too.

They started poking around, and Harley quickly found the white Gucci suit. It was the one the Riddler wore at his last gallery heist, but it was also the one from the first image she'd seen of him, beaming for his audience of victims.

"Jackpot," she murmured, pulling the suit off the rack and holding it up for the Joker to see. "I’m taking this," she announced.

"Cute," the Joker drawled. "So uh, whaddya ya make of this,  _ doc?" _

Harley palmed the clothes, looking at labels—Dolce and Gabbana, Tom Ford, Celine, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Versace, Chanel. Harley even recognized some of these names.

"Well, there's definitely an urge to collect," she started slowly. "We know he craves attention, so this will be part of that... maybe using money to fill a void... or maybe he just likes nice things and has cash to burn." She shrugged and shot the Joker a smirk. "I'm a little rusty."

He chuckled throatily, but it quickly turned into a long, intrigued hum. 

"Come getta look at his," he said, peering at a painting balanced on the vanity table.

It was the Francis Bacon painting, ‘Figure with Meat’, depicting a screaming face between two halves of a butchered cow. Harley joined the Joker, standing beside him as they examined the painting together. Harley cocked her head to the side, drinking in the smears of brown and red— they reminded her of blood,  _ violence _ , and she felt oddly drawn to it. 

“It kinda looks like your face,” the Joker observed mildly, making Harley snort as she looked up at him, fighting back a grin.

“Are you calling me ugly?” she demanded, watching a sly smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” he purred, his eyes sweeping over her. “Just  _ rotten _ .” 

Harley laughed, blushing a little, which was ridiculous. 

The Joker lifted a hand to touch her hair, toying with a few silvery waves at her shoulder, and Harley looked up at him from under her eyelashes. 

"You like it?" she asked, and he nodded slowly, winding a lock of her hair around his index finger.

"You know I like everything," he said throatily, meeting her eye.

Harley took a deep breath, which was less painful now, and looked away, feeling confused and sad and aroused, but mostly stubborn. So stubborn. The Joker let his hand drop away from her hair.

"Yer still mad about Crane," he observed flatly.

Harley looked up at him. "You lied to me," she said quietly.

"I  _ hid _ it from you," he countered immediately, his face darkening.

"What's the difference?" Harley shook her head.

"Uh, a  _ lot _ ," the Joker scoffed, his jaw twitching. "I was trynna, ya know, keep us _ alive _ ." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Crane's a pussy, but he's gonna fuck us over, and he woulda done it sooner if you got involved.”

Harley bit her bottom lip, realizing this was his way of saying he was trying to  _ protect her _ , and the sentiment made her feel...

_ Great _ .

"I mean,  _ look _ at you," he flapped his hand at her. "You're going  _ crazy _ because you don't know what's goin’ on with the big boss. You always have to know  _ everything _ . If I told you I was workin' with the Scarecrow,  _ nothing _ woulda stopped you getting involved."

He was right, and Harley sighed loudly, running a hand over her hair before she looked up at him again.

"But I also  _ listen _ to you," she insisted. "If you tell me I'm making a bad move, I'll listen to you." She offered him a small smile. "That's why I keep you around. To watch my back."

His face relaxed a fraction, and he looked off to the side, chewing his scarred bottom lip before he met her eye.

”You were  _ supposed _ to, ya know," he wiggled his fingers and made a face like he was searching for the right word. "Ya know,  _ trust _ me." 

Harley's eyes widened, struggling to accept that they were having this conversation. They didn't talk about their feelings. They didn't negotiate or compromise. They relied on their connection to keep the peace instead of words. Usually, if they weren't happy with each other, they just gave each other space or fucked it out. Usually, they understood each other implicitly. But it seemed Gotham had a way of mutating that connection, making it blurry and less clean.

"I do trust you," she promised him.

One scarred corner of his mouth slid up in a roguish smirk, and after a beat, he lifted his hand to touch her hair again. His fingers wound into the soft waves at the side of her face like he felt more entitled to touch her now.

"I don’t lie to you, Harl," he promised her, his voice low. "That'd be like lying to myself, and what's the fucking point in doing that?"

Harley pressed her lips together, her pulse leaping happily as she tried to decide if she was moving too fast or should just do what she wanted. The latter won out as it always should, and she grabbed the Joker’s tie, yanking him toward her until he had her pressed her up against the vanity table, his hand tightening in her hair. They shared a lingering look before Harley tipped her head back, and he started to lean down to kiss her when the front door swung open, and they both froze.

"Mr Nygma?" a frail, accented voice asked. "Mr Nygma, your front door is open..."

Harley pulled the suppressed gun and looked up at the Joker. They had another silent exchange, contemplating the merits of killing the Riddler's elderly concerned neighbor. Eventually, J shook his head and loped toward the window over the sofa bed, ducking out onto the fire escape. Harley grabbed the Gucci suit and followed him, and they made a quick escape out into the night.

* * *

It was a weird night. 

Dinah lingered on a fire escape in the alley behind Wayne Hall, waiting for the beat cops to disperse so she could talk to Essen and Montoya. Bruce was following a lead for the Riddler, but he’d already checked in to say it was a dead end. Everything felt like a dead end, but Dinah tried not to think that way as she lowered herself into the alley, sticking to the shadows until the beat cops left. 

“Have you found anything?” Dinah asked, making both women spin around. 

“Do you always sneak up like that?” Montoya demanded, though she looked amused.

“Harley got in under a pseudonym,” Essen explained. “Peaches Kane. It sounds like she came so she could speak to Hamilton Hill.” 

“About solar panels and electric buses,” Montoya added drily.

“And the Riddler?” Dinah frowned. 

“No idea,” Montoya shrugged. “But he wanted to ruin Harley’s night.”

“There are far too many maybes on what could be going on there,” Essen sighed.  


“And we got more problems on that front,” Montoya drawled, exchanging a look with Essen, who nodded her approval. 

“It seems we no longer have Harley Quinn and the Joker’s prints and DNA profiles on our system,” she explained, her mouth puckering unhappily. “We’ve got the tech guys looking into it, but someone hacked our server a few weeks back.”

“What else did they take?” Dinah frowned. 

“Jonathan Crane’s personal files,” Montoya raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Jonathan Crane?” Dinah was so surprised she used her normal voice. “The Scarecrow?”

“Exactly,” Essen said darkly. “Which begs the question, if this hacker is working for the Joker, why is he stealing things for Jonathan Crane.”

“Because they’re having a bad guy team up,” Montoya drawled. “Harley and Crane were both Arkham doctors before they went rogue.” 

“Crane’s not dangerous on his own,” Dinah said softly, remembering what both Harley and Bruce told her about the former director of Arkham Asylum. “He latches onto powerful people. It would make sense for him to work with Harley and the Joker.”

“What did I tell you,” Montoya sighed. “Bad guy team up.”

“Can anyone think of a reason why Jonathan Crane would want to abduct Janice Porter or Commissioner Akins?” Essen asked rhetorically, receiving silence from Dinah and Montoya. “Exactly,” she agreed. 

“So we’ve got the Joker, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow and the Riddler,” Montoya ticked them off on her fingers. “We got a disappeared DA and a disappeared Police Commissioner and absolutely no answers. And we're supposed to believe Gotham’s the safest it’s ever been.”

“What are you saying?” Essen frowned. 

“I’m saying there’s a conspiracy,” Montoya shrugged. “I’m saying all these freaks aren’t coming out of the woodwork for no reason, and there’s something bigger going on than the usual bad-guy-business of chaos and destruction.”

“You’re right,” Dinah agreed, foreboding tickling the back of her neck. “I’ll look into it.”

* * *

Harley caught a cab from a random corner Uptown, leaving the Joker with a great deal going unsaid between them. It felt like they were tip-toeing around something. Maybe sex, maybe feelings, Harley didn't know. But when she got in the taxi, she felt like she'd left part of herself standing on that street corner with him.

_ Shit _ .

When she got back to Samantha's apartment, she spent hours sitting in front of her murder board, adding an index card for  _ the Riddler / E Nygma _ though she had no idea how he tied into the larger plot.

She tried to sleep, but it wasn't real sleep; it was sleep obsessed with the Riddler and Black Mask. She wondered if this was what it was like for the Batman. Did he lay up at night seeing the Joker disappear in and out of the room? A fraction of a moment away from being corporeal, a split second away from being an entity he could destroy?

Without sleep as a viable option, Harley turned to cardio. She pulled on Samantha's sneakers and jogged around the block, unsurprised to find a dark blue BMW waiting for her outside the safe house, two men indiscreetly watching from the front seat.

She showered and stared at her murder board again, still not finding any answers. She peaked out the window as afternoon approached, seeing the BMW still loitering there. With few other options, she went jogging again until she grew bored of it. She reorganized the toiletries in Samantha’s bathroom then moved onto the kitchen to do the same with her pantry. Who the hell stocked up on this much nutritional yeast, anyway? 

Harley wasn’t entirely sure how she would get answers from the Iceberg Lounge when two night’s earlier, she’d maimed one man and killed two others in the club’s backroom. But as midnight drew closer, she was desperate to get out of the house and almost  _ hoping _ she’d find herself in the middle of an altercation by the end of the night. 

She’d long-since run out of patience with _blending in,_ so she pulled on the same trousers and bodice she’d worn the night before, then threw the Riddler’s white blazer on top, rolling up the sleeves to her elbows. When she checked herself out in a full-length mirror, eyeballing the shoulder pads, she couldn’t help but chuckle.

She had to give the Riddler credit. He had  _ big _ taste. 

Less good looking were the bruises around her neck, which had turned black and blue overnight as she'd expected. There was one good way to explain them away, and people would be all too eager to believe the Joker tried to kill her.   


_ Fuck them, _ Harley thought as she stepped into a pair of vermillion heels and shook out her hair. Fuck  _ all _ of them.

Frost picked her up around midnight, by which point Harley had come up with a game plan.

"How you feelin', doc?" Frost asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. "You let me know if you need anything, okay?" he added earnestly, making Harley laugh.

"I will," she promised.

Everything was the same at the Iceberg Lounge. The line around the block. The throbbing music. The swelling dance floor full of people high on BO. The only things that ever changed were superficial, the style of music, the outfits, the decor. 

Despite her desire for some violence, Harley was determined to get something useful out of this excursion, hoping she would never have to come back unless it was to blow the club halfway to hell.

Ed was behind the bar as he always was. Tonight he had a sparkly blue lightning bolt painted across his face, his hair coiffed into an elaborate rockabilly spiral. He was looking more subdued than usual, and when Harley caught his eye, he didn't react with his usual camp bluster, he just stared at her blankly across the room, watching her move through the crowd toward the birdcage.

Victor held up his arm when Harley tried to walk into the VIP area, barring her path.

"No can do, Harley," he shrugged helplessly.

Harley spotted Lucy sitting with Mario and Alberto, all of them talking with their heads together, looking sober for a change. Lucy wore what Harley could only assume was the height of glam rock, a flared red jumpsuit she'd paired with sparkly pink platform boots, her hair teased and shellacked into a tower that reminded Harley of a cockatoo.

When Lucy saw Harley standing there, she exchanged a look with Mario, who quickly shuffled out of the birdcage through the old kitchen doors, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"I think Lucy wants to talk to me," Harley told Victor, taking stock of him quickly. 

The delusional psychopath who'd tortured her had been killed off, only a hairless puppet remaining—an empty vessel. 

"What happened to you?" she demanded impulsively.

"Me?" Victor's vacant eyes widened, a dopey smile on his bloodless lips. "I've always been this way, Harley. Maybe it's you who's changed."

Harley eyed him warily, knowing instinctively that he was parroting a line he'd been fed. A line from Black Mask?

"We'll see about that," she replied cautiously, turning her attention to Lucy when she appeared behind Victor, her mouth puckering unhappily. "Hey, Lucy," Harley grinned.

"Whaddya doing back here, Harley?" Lucy demanded coldly. "Ya can't just cut off one of my customer's  _ fingers _ and expect me to invite you back in with open arms."

"Reeves got handsy with me, Lucy, what was I supposed to do?" Harley sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

Lucy spotted the bruises on her neck then, her green eyes narrowing suspiciously. Harley dropped the bravado, looking off to the side, playing vulnerable. 

"Look, Lucy, I need to talk to you," she said, angling for earnest.

Lucy pursed her glossy lips as she searched Harley's face. She obviously did not trust her, but she still nodded and gestured for Harley to join her, and Victor obediently stepped aside to let her pass.

Harley lowered herself onto the magenta chaise lounge, keeping her expression neutral as Lucy eyeballed the violent marks covering her throat.

"Who did that to you?" she demanded, meeting Harley's eye.

"Who did you think?" Harley shot back drily.

Lucy's eyebrows rose. "Seriously? The Joker did that to you?"

"I'm not here to gossip about him," Harley countered indignantly. "I'm here for a job."

"Ha!" Lucy scoffed, right in Harley's face. Her lip curled as she shook her head. "You gotta be fuckin'  _ kidding _ me. I'm getting deja vu over here. You think I forgot what you did to Penguin?  _ Huh _ ?"

"I'm not asking you to trust me," Harley countered patiently. "You're the one who reached out to me about the Janice Porter job. I just need some cash to get me back on my feet."

Lucy kept shaking her head, looking disgusted. She opened her mouth to protest when Victor cleared his throat. He had a finger pressed to his earpiece as he bent down to tell Lucy something. She fumed silently for a moment, her pink lips pressing together in a furious line as she glared at Harley.

"Just so we're clear, I think you're full of shit," she snapped. "I don't care if your boyfriend beats ya up, and I don't care if you're desperate for cash. You're a fuckin’  _ snake _ , Harley Quinn, and I think it's crazy the boss wants anything to do with ya." 

She rose to her feet, making Harley's eyes widen, primarily due to the remarkable show of backbone, but also because Lucy was openly telling Harley that her boss had taken an  _ interest _ . 

"But he's got his reasons," she continued, her pretty face souring like she smelled something offensive. "And an associate of ours would like to present you with an opportunity."

Ed arrived with a tray of drinks just as Harley got to her feet, triumph and suspicion warring inside her over who this new  _ associate _ could be and what opportunity they were about to present her with.

Lucy gestured to the old kitchen doors, indicating the associate was waiting on the other side.

"Dry gin martinis?" Ed offered, sounding less than his usual cheerful self.

Harley turned to grab a drink, deciding a martini glass's broken stem would be a good enough weapon should things get dicey with the  _ associate _ .

Ed forced a smile, showing off a set of pearly white teeth  as she picked up a drink. Then his eyes darted down to her stolen white blazer, his nostrils suddenly flaring. 

He looked pale beneath the sparkling blue lightning bolt like he was sick or hadn't slept, and then Harley noticed that his left eye was swollen, a layer of meticulously applied makeup covering a bruise under the orbital bone.

Harley remembered punching the Riddler just before they’d tussled on the floor. She remembered thinking Ed was hiding something. She remembered all those bad 'jokes' of Ed's that weren't jokes—they were  _ riddles _ .

_ E _ Nygma. 

Genuine shock swept over Harley, nearly making her mouth fall open that the  _ Riddler _ could have been right under her nose this  _ whole _ time. There was only one way to be sure, so Harley lunged forward, her hand clapping down on Ed's side, digging her fingers into the place where the two stab wounds would be.

Ed swallowed a cry of pain, his eyes bulging as he lurched away from her, the tray of drinks crashing to the floor. He staggered to the side, catching himself on the magenta couch, seething at Harley. She stared back at him, not sure what to do, or even sure what she  _ wanted _ to do. Did she kill him? Did she kidnap him? Did she tell Lucy her favorite bartender was, in fact, the Riddler? She didn't know.

"Harley," Lucy snapped impatiently, forcing Harley to turn around. 

Ultimately, she knew this  _ associate _ would be more useful than another fight with the Riddler, so she shot Ed one last dangerous look, letting him know it wasn't over between them, then followed Lucy out of the birdcage and into the old kitchens.

The music from the club made the kitchen walls vibrate, and Harley used the sound to cover the  _ SNAP _ when she broke off the stem of her martini glass, tucking the jagged piece of crystal in her jacket pocket. Then as they headed for the back door, she slipped her burner out of her clutch and fired off a quick text to Frost— _ Back alley. Now. _

There were two handsome bouncers standing guard outside, and a black Jaguar idling in the alley, a driver waiting at attention beside its backdoor.

Harley wrapped her hand around the glass stem in her pocket, eyeballing the driver warily as he opened the door for her. 

Lucy shot her a nasty smirk then flounced back inside the club, leaving Harley with little choice but to kill everyone or get in the car. She tried to meet the driver's eye, but he looked away, obviously nervous. Either because he knew who she was or she wasn't doing a great job of hiding that she was a tightly wound spring, needing very little to set her off in a big, hot, messy way.

Harley took a deep breath to compose herself and ducked into the car, quickly realizing that the associate waiting there would not be attacking her anytime soon.

He was on the later side of middle age, with a full head of graying hair neatly clipped and swept to the side. His suit was well cut but not ostentatious, his tie undecorative, his watch practical, his wedding band slim. But just like all the other wealthy men Harley had met, he radiated entitlement. 

"So, you're what all the fuss is about," he wrinkled his nose like he didn’t want to be there, or maybe he’d been forced into this meeting. 

"Who are you?" Harley asked, squinting at him curiously. 

"My name is John Dagget," he said sourly, making Harley's eyebrows raise. "And what should I call you?"

"Whatever you want," she replied calmly, sizing up John Daggett of Daggett Industries, she could only assume. 

John Daggett, an  _ associate _ of Black Mask, it would seem.

"Well, I won't be calling you ' _ doctor' _ since they've revoked your PhD. What a waste," he scoffed and looked out the window. "All that hard work and ambition, all that talent and drive, and you just threw it away."

"What exactly do you want, Mr Daggett?" Harley narrowed her eyes, unsure what to make of this very entitled man opining on her former career and the choices she'd made since—judging her instead of fearing her. But more importantly, _knowing_ more about her than most. To call her talented, ambitious, driven—he would have had to look into her past. He would have to be _interested_.

"I wanted to meet you," he explained, meeting her eye for the first time. "To make sure you're not  _ insane." _

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Harley shot back.

Daggett chuckled bitterly, again making her think he didn't want to be there, that someone been forced him into this. It made her wonder how he fit into Black Mask's operation—a billionaire businessman reluctantly inviting Harley Quinn into his Jaguar to ask her about her mental health.

"When I make an investment, I like to know what I'm  _ actually  _ investing in," he informed her briskly. "If that investment is criminally insane, I might be hesitant to agree."

"An _ investment _ ?" Harley's eyebrows knitted together. 

Daggett didn't reply directly. He sighed like he was under duress and shot her a withering look.

"I take it that strangulation is a regular threat in your line of work," he snapped, looking at her neck. "Maybe you ought to think about a change."

Harley ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find the words Daggett needed to hear to reveal more details about this  _ investment _ to her.

"I'm making some... changes in my personal life," she said carefully, meeting Daggett's eye. "My former partner wasn't happy about it."

"Changes in your personal life," Daggett raised an eyebrow. "Well, that certainly sounds like something a sane person would do.”

"Tell me what you want, Daggett," Harley demanded, tired of playing games.

"It isn't what I want," Daggett replied drily. "It's what the  _ group _ wants."

Harley didn't say anything to that, too surprised by the added layer of a  _ group,  _ not just a  _ boss _ . Had she had it wrong this whole time? Was it some kind of  _ council _ ? 

"Come to the Tobacconist's Club tomorrow night," he instructed. "Ten o'clock."

Harley squeezed the glass stem in her pocket, considering the ways she could use it to get a better answer out of Daggett right then, right there, instead of yet another adventure in bullshit. In the end, she pushed her door open without a word, neither agreeing or disagreeing to his proposal, and stepped out into the humid alley.

Daggett's driver ducked back into the front seat, and the Jaguar swiftly pulled away, leaving Harley staring after it, her mind racing. 

A town car pulled up right beside her as the bumper of Daggett's car disappeared around the corner. She glanced at the two handsome bouncers guarding the club’s back entrance, then opened the town car’s door and slipped inside. 

The Joker was lounging on the other side of the backseat, waiting for her.

Harley slammed the door and collapsed into the seat, her eyes closing.

"That good, huh?" he asked as Frost pulled out of the alley, turning in the opposite direction of Daggett's car.

"Well," Harley said slowly, trying to organize her thoughts. "That was billionaire businessman John Daggett. Lucy said he's an associate of Black Mask."

She looked at the Joker, who raised one amused eyebrow, taking this news in stride.

"He wanted to meet me," Harley continued grimly. "To make sure I'm not insane before he agrees to make an  _ investment _ in me."

"An...  _ investment?" _ the Joker squinted at her owlishly.

"Whatever the fuck that means," Harley sighed, pushing her hair off her face and closing her eyes. "He wants me to go to the Tobacconist's Club tomorrow night to find out more... and... it sounded like..."

Frost pulled onto the freeway as Harley struggled to articulate what Daggett told her, putting it in context with the rest of what they knew. 

"He said this investment wasn't up to him, but up to a group." She looked at the Joker uncertainly. "I think I'm going to meet... the group."

He raked a hand through his hair, thinking over what she’d said, his jaw twitching as he thought.

"There's something else," Harley sighed, shooting him an ironic little smile. "I know who the Riddler is."

"Oh yeah?" he cocked an eyebrow at her. 

"He's a bartender named Ed," Harley scowled. "He's Lucy's favorite, and he was right under my nose this whole time."

"How'd ya figure that out?"

"Poked him in the ribs where I stabbed him last night," Harley admitted moodily, getting a quiet chuckle.

"Wanna go back and shoot the place up?" J offered her a roguish smirk that she returned faintly. "Grab this  _ Ed _ guy and beat his brains in?"

"No," Harley sighed. "Lucy is pissed enough as it is, and I need to fly low before this meeting tomorrow night. Besides," she shrugged. "If Ed has any sense, he'll be long gone by now."

"You get the feeling he's got any sense?" the Joker asked wryly.

"Mmm," Harley made a face. "He's very..." She searched for the right word. "Well, he's exactly what you'd expect. Attention seeking, flamboyant. But to be honest, right now, I couldn't care less about him."

The Joker hummed in agreement.

“How’s Crane?” Harley asked tentatively, to which the Joker grunted, sounding annoyed. 

“At the warehouse,” he caught Harley’s eye, smirking slyly. “I got him convinced the  _ Batman’s _ obsessed with tracking him down. He’s too chickenshit to leave on his own.”

Harley threw her head back and laughed. “That’s  _ hilarious _ .”

“He’s psyching himself to get out of there,” the Joker predicted. “It’s just a  _ matter _ of time.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the short drive to Otisberg, each of them deep in thought. For the first time in weeks, Harley knew she and the Joker were in lockstep. It was comforting considering how little else she knew. She could feel that sense of closeness she'd been missing so desperately mending, knitting back together, maybe thanks in part to their conversation the night before. Talking about their _feelings_.  


When Frost pulled up outside Samantha's apartment, Harley didn't move to get out of the car, not quite ready to part from the Joker yet. Frost seemed to pick up on it.

"I'm gonna have a quick smoke, boss," he said, leaving the car running as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Harley glanced at the Joker, who was sucking on the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There were so many confusing plates around them spinning, and she realized then that the only thing that made sense was being with him. Harley didn't care about Crane or the show they were putting on for the people stalking them. She didn't care about the  _ investment _ Daggett and Black Mask wanted to make in her. She only wanted the Joker.

She slid across the backseat so she was sitting thigh to thigh with him, looking up at him in the dim glow of the reading light in the front seat. He slowly turned to look down at her, almost like he was surprised to see her there. Maybe he was surprised after how stubborn she'd been while he'd made small gestures, keeping her in the loop—trying to explain himself. 

His eyes darted around her face, understanding what she felt as she reached up to push a flop of greasy green-tinged hair off his forehead.

Harley closed her eyes and tipped her head back, inviting him to kiss her. After a moment, he lowered his mouth to hers, his fingers threading into her hair at the side of her face as their lips slid together, indulging in being physically connected again.

Harley slipped her tongue in his mouth to touch his softly, relishing the familiar taste of him. She felt him inhale sharply as he twisted toward her, drawing his knee up on the seat between them. He deepened the kiss when Harley tugged on his hair, the hot pressure of his tongue against hers making her toes curl.

She leaned back across the backseat, pulling him with her, and he shifted so he could hover over her with one knee planted between her legs. His hand curled around her waist, squeezing her hard as his mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, then down to her neck, his tongue flicking over a sensitive bruise there. 

Harley felt him take a deep breath as he rubbed his nose against her tender throat, breathing her in as his hand roamed up and down her side, his fingers digging into her like he was trying to pull her apart. 

Her heart leaping, Harley pulled his face back up to hers, pushing her tongue into his mouth more urgently as he tugged her bodice down, freeing one of her small breasts. Her knees locked around his thigh, and though she hadn't meant for this to turn into that, she ground her pelvis against his leg. He ducked down to pull her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, making Harley pant quietly as heat flooded her belly. She rubbed up against his thigh again, feeling his cock getting hard against her hip as their breathing turned heavy. He made a throaty, satisfied sound and pressed his leg forward against her core, encouraging her to squirm against him as he kissed her deeply and palmed her breast.

Frost knocked on the driver's side window, and the Joker froze above Harley as her eyes snapped open. She stared up at him in the partial darkness, the urge to invite him upstairs unbearably intense even though they weren't supposed to be seeing each other. He licked his lips, and his jaw twitched, then he pulled back with a loud, frustrated sigh through his nose. Harley pulled her top up and sat up too, pushing her hair off her face just as Frost slid back behind the wheel. But she wasn't annoyed at him. They were being watched, and he couldn't stand outside the car while they fooled around in the backseat when their babysitters knew she was in there.

Harley took a deep breath and looked at the Joker, who was staring straight ahead, obviously as physically frustrated as was.

"Bye," she murmured, pushing her door open.

He tipped his head toward her, an ironic smirk on his lips. 

"Text me," he said, making Harley laugh quietly before she got out of the car.

Harley knew she was being watched as she crossed the street and climbed the stairs to Samantha's apartment, but for the moment, she was feeling too alive to care. She was feeling… 

_ Electrified. _

Like she'd spent the past month dying inside, and her heart had just been jump-started back to life.

* * *

**A/N: Only 9 chapters for a real kiss! And not a bad one, right?**

**More importantly… they talked about their feelings! Communication! Personal growth! All the heart eyes! In character... that's for you to decide.  
**

**But also… Ed and Roman gossiping! Ed’s thoughts about Harley are one of my favorite things in this fic. Ed is all of us when it comes to Harley.**

**Ed’s building is inspired by London Terrace in Chelsea, but a dirtier 1970s/80s New York version because it’s Gotham. If that’s of interest at all.**

**_Next: Harley meets Black Mask, and Vicki investigates Daggett Industries._ **

**I got a Lonnie mood board up on Tumblr if you’re interested.**

**Please comment or review! Even just a squeal of delight that our favourite terrorists had a little smooch and a fumble. They do a bit more than that next week.**

**xo**


	10. Chapter 10

**_Previously: John Daggett, an associate of Black Mask, has invited Harley to meet a ‘group’ who might want to make an ‘investment’ in her. She and the Joker talk about their feelings (ish) and kiss. They continue to pretend they're separated, knowing they’re more dangerous together._ **

_Theme: Matthew Dear - ‘What You Don’t Know’ ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/hExkek1Eows)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/7n2Q46UVKsCubWADEN9Sio?si=k06b-Hh_Q8qvVQ4WoD-FNQ)) _

* * *

The Pantomime

10.

* * *

Harley burst through the front door into Samantha’s apartment, feeling far too turned on to think clearly, but determined to try. She kicked off her shoes and shrugged off the Riddler’s— _Ed’s—_ blazer, then grabbed a pen and confronted her murder board. 

_‘John Daggett’_ , she wrote, directly on the wall in red ink, circling the name and drawing a line straight to Lucy.

She tried to picture Daggett as the big boss. Caustic and cautious, he was the type of man who didn’t need recognition, who just wanted power. Unlike Hill, he would be happy to stay behind the scenes, pulling strings to get what he wanted. But what did he want? He was a billionaire already. Why get in bed with drug dealers and the mob? Why the interest in Harley? 

Besides, he has seemed _very_ reluctant to meet with her. 

That had been at someone else’s urging. 

Harley booted up Samantha’s laptop and spent the next few hours hunting down information on Daggett. He was excruciatingly boring, in a completely different fashion than Hill. He had a boring wife known for her equestrianism, he had two boring sons, neither of whom appeared in the gossip columns despite going to the same schools as the Bruce Waynes of the world. Daggett donated to charities for children’s cancer, he was a Republican, and he was scowling in every picture that existed of him. 

What Harley needed was something to clear her head. Some _relief_ from all this tension. 

So she stretched out on the couch, shimmied out of her pants, and slipped her hand between her legs, her mind drifting back to the Joker to get herself in the mood. Specifically, his _voice_ , which she had come to find almost as arousing as his hands and his mouth. Purring in her ear about what he wanted to do to her, growling promises while he fucked her, giving her instructions for what he wanted her to do to _herself_ , like he had over the phone every night that week Harley was with Pam in Peru. 

“ _You two are ridiculous,_ ” Pam had scoffed, correctly deducing why Harley kept sneaking off to the bathroom with her phone at night.

Thinking about Pam reminded Harley that Black Mask had asked Sly about _Poison Ivy_ too. If it weren’t for the fact that Pam was virtually indestructible and hadn't been in Gotham for almost a year, Harley would have been more worried, but there was enough on her plate as it was. Pam could definitely look after herself. 

“Erghh,” Harley huffed, thoughts of Pam being in imminent danger enough to ruin her mood. 

She managed to find sleep on the couch, not realizing how exhausted she was after nearly two full days without a real REM cycle. 

Time was passing in a very strange fashion, not helped by the fact that there was a BMW parked outside her safe house at all times, her babysitters keeping tabs on her for Black Mask. It was excessive and obvious, and even more proof of this _interest_ in her. This _investment._

It also meant she had to stick to a routine so they wouldn’t think she was hiding something if she deviated from it. That meant staying inside all day aside from going jogging, which she was doing with increasing frequency to burn off frustration and keep herself distracted. Anything else she might have otherwise done was off-limits so the babysitters wouldn’t see her. And as Harley spent the day alternating between working out, obsessively cleaning, and staring at her murder board, she realized just how _trapped_ she had become. 

She was theoretically free, but Black Mask had managed to cage her all the same. And the recent improvement in her personal life, she was suffocating.

* * *

Vicki was on edge. 

It had been three days since the Joker re-emerged after six months in hiding, and Harley had been spotted twice in that time. Usually, Harley flew under the radar unless she wanted to be seen. She didn’t get caught, and she certainly didn’t get called out in public, or have her identity exposed by a fellow terrorist with a taste for theatrics. 

Needless to say, Vicki was a little high strung, worrying that she was partially to blame for Commissioner Akins kidnapping and probable death. Vicki had _seen_ Harley at the Tobacconist’s Club a week earlier and didn’t do anything about it; instead of telling the cops, she’d hunted down her own leads. 

Bruce helped comfort her, though she would never be able to tell him why Harley got under her skin as much as she did. That day at the hotel still haunted Vicki, when she begged Harley to tell her what the Joker had up his sleeve, treating it like a scoop instead of the horrific string of murders she’d known it would turn out to be. What else would he have had up his sleeve? Why didn’t Vicki do more to stop it? Hell, if she’d called the police and told them where they were that day, it might have been enough to stop the Mayor’s kidnapping and the events that followed. Or at least some of it. 

So, while the Daggett Industries-Hill Consulting story was tempting to pursue, Vicki decided to leave it alone. _Especially_ since Harley had been seen at Hill’s fundraiser. She didn’t know how Harley was connected to Hill, or why she’d been speaking to his campaign manager, but whatever was going on there, Vicki wanted no part in it. 

But when she popped out of the office to grab some lunch that afternoon, she was stopped by a cop on the steps of the Globe's HQ, and things got even more interesting.

“Vicki Vale?” A Latina woman of about forty wearing a cheap suit and aviator sunglasses flashed her badge. She had obviously been waiting. 

“Yes,” Vicki said warily. 

“Detective Renee Montoya, MCU,” Montoya introduced herself with a crooked smile, tucking her sunglasses into her breast pocket. “I was wondering if I could buy you a coffee?”

“What’s this about?” Vicki asked, nervous and paranoid, and rightly so. 

“The Joker,” Montoya shrugged, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t everything? Anyway, you did a lot of reporting around that whole Harvey Dent debacle, and I wanted to get your take on a few things.”

“My take?” Vicki frowned.

“Your opinion,” Montoya clarified. “So what do you say, coffee?”

Vicki agreed, and ten minutes later they were in a Midtown cafe, a waitress depositing frothy ten-dollar cappuccinos in front of them.

“If you’re investigating Janice Porter’s disappearance, I don’t know how much help I can be,” Vicki admitted. “It’s completely different from Harvey Dent.”

“Sure,” Montoya agreed, stirring sugar into her coffee. “I mean, we don’t even know if the clowns are behind Porter’s disappearance,” she shrugged. “And then we have Akins.”

“Their reasons for doing things aren’t always clear, but there is _always_ a reason,” Vicki pointed out, relaxing as she realized Montoya really did just want her opinion. “You don’t have anything tying them to Porter?”

“Not a _thing_ , just a hunch,” Montoya sniffed and sipped her coffee. “I just transferred here from Bludhaven so I wasn’t around for all of the Joker’s shenanigans the first few times. But the way I understand it, it’s all about building toward something. It starts with a bank robbery, then the next thing you know, someone high profile is dead, and it snowballs from there until you have to call in the National Guard. It doesn’t make sense until it does. So maybe Porter disappearing quiet and Akins being picked up off a street corner doesn’t fit their MO, but they could be part of something bigger. And that means we need to figure out why they were both taken.”

Vicki nodded, agreeing. 

“Were Porter and Akins working on anything that tied them together? Big cases or something like that?”

“Not especially. Akins caught the bad guys. Porter had them prosecuted,” Montoya shot Vicki a loaded look. “And I mean like, very low-level stuff compared to what Gotham usually has to offer. The crime rate is… unusually low right now.” She laughed a little bitterly. “Which doesn’t make much sense when we’ve gotten four terrorists who wear masks or paint their faces on the loose.”

“Yeah,” Vicki agreed with a thoughtful frown. “It’s more than a little strange.”

“Porter was investigating a bunch of big corporations based in Gotham pretty aggressively,” Montoya continued. “From what we can tell, she kept Akins in the loop, but there wasn’t enough there for an indictment.” 

“She was?” Vicki asked, thinking about Hill’s spiderweb-like consulting firm, with arms in every major corporation in Gotham and a few dictatorships abroad too. But that was a job for the FBI or CIA, not the GCPD. 

“Your colleagues in the media seem to think it’s some kind of reenactment of what happened two years ago,” Montoya said, raising her eyebrows. “The clown targeted three people then—the police Commissioner, the DA, and a judge. Me personally? I’m thinking we end up with a dead or disappeared judge next.”

“Recreating his first reign of terror?” Vicki made a face. “No way.”

“Why not? It’s big and dramatic and scary. It’ll remind people of his first attacks,” Montoya shrugged and sat back. “It worked the first time, why wouldn’t he do it again? It’s all about creating chaos, right?” 

“Because it's superficial. That’s way too simple for them. There’s _always_ a message,” Vicki explained, her mind still on Hill. That was where the real story was. Freaks in masks were a distraction. She chewed on her bottom lip, a question suddenly burning on her tongue. “Have you found anything connecting Hamilton Hill to Janice Porter or Mike Akins?”

“Hill?” Montoya looked surprised, then frowned thoughtfully. “Akins was a big fan of his. Had the MGGA hat and everything. And Harley Quinn was seen at Hill’s fundraiser but otherwise… I don’t think so.”

“What about John Daggett?” Vicki pressed.

“Daggett Industries was one of the companies Porter and Akins were investigating,” Montoya admitted, frowning. “What have Daggett and Hill got to do with any of this?”

“I’m looking into some things at the moment that don’t make sense,” Vicki admitted. “And who knows, maybe the Joker and Harkey Quinn are behind all of it.”

“Or maybe the Riddler and the Scarecrow,” Montoya agreed drily. “Or whoever the hell else is going to show up next.”

“Yeah,” Vicki agreed faintly, her eyebrows knitting together as she considered it—that there was someone _else_ . Who _was_ going to show up next? 

Montoya questioned Vicki about the ‘Reigns of Terror’ for another twenty minutes, notably glossing over the Batman and Black Canary, and the popular opinion that they were responsible for inspiring the Joker’s return. Vicki replied carefully, trying not to make her insight seem too… _personal_.

When they parted, Montoya gave Vicki her card in case she thought of anything helpful.

“Full disclosure, we’re desperate for some fresh input on this,” she added with a shrug, leaving Vicki standing outside the cafe running her tongue over her teeth, wondering if maybe she _could_ be helpful if she kept digging into this Daggett-Hill storyline. 

“Oooooh, Vale!”

Vicki whipped around to see Knox, her obnoxious but loveable inhouse photographer smirking at her a few feet away. He had a box of doughnuts under his arm and his camera around his neck, and Vicki immediately knew he had followed her there

“Corner office is doing a little freelancing, huh,” he grinned. 

“Did you follow me?” Vicki demanded, feeling paranoid even though she’d done nothing wrong.

“Oh, chill out,” Knox rolled his eyes. “I saw the cop stop you, thought maybe you might need an excuse to get away.”

Vicki frowned at him.

“So, what did she want?” Knox pressed, smirking again. “You working on something? Come on, Vale, I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got a story.”

“There’s no story,” Vicki snapped. “And it’s really creepy of you to follow me, Alex.”

“Following and lingering is kinda the photojournalist game, Vale,” Knox pointed out, his chubby face softening. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna be creepy. I just wanted to help.” 

Vicki sighed and looked at his box of doughnuts. 

“Give me one of those and I’ll forgive you,” she said, earning herself a big toothy grin as Knox offered her the box, and Vicki plucked out a bear claw before they turned back to the office.

“I still think you’re working on something,” Knox insisted, glancing at her sideways. “I gotta nose for this kind of thing—let me help, huh?”

“There’s no story, Alex,” Vicki said again, shooting him a pointed look. “Aren’t you supposed to be photoshopping those shots of Ivania Dumas to make her look skinnier?”

“Ughhh,” Knox groaned. “I hate my job.”

* * *

Harley had no idea what to expect from ‘the group’ or what was waiting for her at the Tobacconist’s Club, so she took longer than usual to decide what to wear. She lingered in front of Samantha’s closet with a glass of wine to help drown out the buzzing in her head after a day trapped indoors, a day of dwelling on uncertainty. 

Eventually, she chose the Little Black Dress she’d last worn to the Tobacconist’s Club. It was simple and would appeal to Daggett’s practical sensibilities, but who the hell knew who else was in the ‘group.’ 

She pulled on Samantha’s flat, thigh-high boots, stashing a switchblade in the leather behind her knee, then considered her reflection in the mirror.

Normally she would wear her warpaint. 

But not wearing it would place her farther away from the Joker.

So she applied a slick of red lipstick and left her eyes bare, then drained the rest of her wine before she headed out to meet Frost with the town car. 

“How you doin’, doc?” Frost asked jovially, but Harley didn’t reply. 

She stared out the window, _bracing_ herself. 

They pulled into the alley behind the Tobacconist’s Club, just as they had when they met Roman. But this time, instead of a doorman wearing a coat and tails, Victor Zsasz was waiting there to greet her. 

“Hi Harley,” he greeted her, his lips twitching as she stepped out of the car. 

“Victor,” Harley replied warily, already sensing there was something _strange_ at play. “Wait here,” she instructed Frost, closing the car door. 

She didn’t feel nervous but… 

Something wasn’t right. 

Victor led Harley into the back entrance of the club, the hallway darker this time with only a single yellow bulb to illuminate it. It was theatrical. Intentional. Harley ground her teeth as she stepped into the elevator after Victor, disliking the fact she was being fucked with. 

“Well, this is all very…” Harley caught Victor’s eye and saw his brow raise curiously. She decided not to continue her train of thought—who knew who he would repeat it to. Instead, she turned to face the elevator doors while Victor twisted a key in the unlabelled keyhole she’d noticed the last time she’d been there, and the lift slowly began to lower. It went deeper underground than the basement bar they met Roman in, so deep they must have been near the hotel’s original foundations. 

Then the elevator came to a sudden, grinding stop, and after a few beats, the doors parted, revealing a small stone room dimly lit by candlelight. 

Harley took a deep breath, keeping her face completely blank as her eyes swung left and right, her pulse suddenly leaping in her throat as she stepped out of the elevator with Victor behind her. 

_Oh... shit_. 

Five people were standing in a semicircle. Four of them were wearing Venetian masks and long, hooded cloaks, each mask different from the one beside it. Gold, red, silver, green. They were ornately decorated and made of lacquered wood, and their owners were standing perfectly still, their cloaks and hoods hiding them completely. 

Then there was the fifth person. Standing before the others. He wore a three-piece suit and black gloves instead of a cloak. Unlike the others, he’d donned a black mask that wrapped around his whole skull, only the whites of his eyes and the sharp line of his jaw visible.

“Harley Quinn,” Black Mask greeted her, his voice a low, electronic purr. “Welcome.” 

Harley forced herself not to react as she examined the group of masked people, and it struck her that for once, she was the only person in the room showing her face. 

She also felt like the only sane person in the room. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady.

“I am Black Mask,” he said, laying a hand over his heart as he gestured to the people behind him. “We are the False Face Society.”

“Right,” Harley said faintly, uncharacteristically lost for words. “Why did you ask me here?”

“We would like to offer you an opportunity,” Black Mask explained patiently. 

Harley tried to picture the face beneath the mask, tried to place the eyes. But the mask stripped this person’s humanity away completely. It was a skull without expression, without personality, without warmth or life or even blood. 

“What kind of opportunity?” she asked, turning her gaze on the members of the False Face Society. 

So this was the _group_.

“An opportunity to join us,” Black Mask said, taking a few slow steps forward. “An opportunity to be one of us.”

“I’m not really a joiner,” Harley said warily.

Black Mask stopped just a couple of feet away from her. Close enough that she could have attacked him if she wanted to.

“Neither am I,” he admitted calmly, making Harley’s eyes widen. “But I think our interests are aligned.” 

“And what is it you think interests me?” Harley demanded.

Instead of replying to her question, Black Mask cocked his head to the side, examining her curiously. His pupils were dilated in the dark room, but Harley could see the irises around them were dark brown as he searched her face. 

“You’re not wearing your warpaint,” he observed softly, sending a shiver racing up Harley’s spine. “Why?”

Harley licked her lips, unable to find a snappy comeback.

“How are our interests aligned?” she asked instead, watching Black Mask’s shoulders rise and fall as he sighed, a raspy sound on the voice modifier like he was disappointed she wouldn’t answer his question.

“You’re looking for something,” he explained, and in another step, he was standing toe to toe with Harley, not as tall as the Joker or the Riddler but still looking down at her. “You’re looking for something to fulfill you,” he continued in that soft vibrating tone. “Something to entertain you. Something you can control.” 

His words hit so close to him, Harley felt goosebumps break out on her arms. But she held her ground, maintaining eye contact and refusing to back down despite feeling so… _compelled_.

“I can give you that, Harley,” Black Mask promised her, lifting one gloved hand between them. “I can give you everything you want.”

For a few long seconds, his hand just hovered in the air between them as if he was considering reaching out to touch her. Harley forgot to breathe as she waited for him to make a move, unsure how she would respond if he did touch her. But then his hand lowered to his side. Maybe the impulse had passed, or maybe he was restraining himself. Harley had no idea; she couldn’t read him in the slightest.

She took a deep breath, recalibrating. 

“You want me to work for you?” she asked. “Is that it? That’s what this is about?”

“Within our group, we help each other,” Black Mask explained, stepping back and gesturing to the masked people behind him. “Everyone works together. Our interests are each others’ interests.”

Harley ran her tongue over the backs of her teeth, trying to think of something to say. 

“I’d like to offer you an opportunity to help us,” Black Mask added before she could. “To test the waters.”

“Test the waters,” Harley repeated flatly.

“Judge Chiecco,” Black Mask explained. “You are in a unique position to make him… disappear.”

“You want me to kill a judge?” Harley’s eyebrow rose, realizing he _was_ offering her a job, but painting it as some kind of group collectivism. “Why?” she demanded, eyeballing the False Face Society again. “What did this judge do to you?”

“Is that important?” Black Mask wondered. “Or is knowing it’s what I want… what _we_ want, good enough?”

It was another test, Harley realized. He framed it as _them_ , but it was _him_. She still wasn’t sure what he was offering in exchange—it was so vague, even if it did cut right to the heart of what motivated her. 

Something fulfilling, something entertaining _._

Something she could _control_. 

“I need men and guns,” she said, impulsively deciding the only thing to do was keep playing the game.

“The Joker doesn’t have men and guns?” Black Mask asked slyly. 

“If you wanted the Joker,” Harley shot back. “You should have asked him to come here. Not me.” 

“Very well,” Black Mask nodded, sounding pleased. He gestured to the elevator. “Victor will work out the particulars with you.”

Harley caught Black Mask’s eye again and held it for a few long seconds, trying to memorize them so she wouldn't forget the one part of this man she could see. 

When he blinked, his eyelashes were long and dark, feminine. 

The elevator doors parted behind her. 

“I’ll see you soon, Harley,” Black Mask said softly.

Harley stared at him a moment longer before she stepped into the elevator, Victor stepping in beside her.

* * *

“You okay?” Victor asked, looking amused as he walked her back to the alley where Frost was waiting with the town car. 

Harley shot him a dirty look and pulled her burner out of her bag. 

“Just give me your number,” she muttered, shoving her phone into Victor’s hands. “I’ll text you what I need tonight.”

“Tonight?” Victor’s brow raised appraisingly, still looking amused as he typed his number into her phone. 

“I want to get this done as soon as possible,” Harley said shortly, snatching the phone back and jabbing the call button with her thumb.

“Look at us, working together,” Victor gave her a crooked grin as he pulled out an iPhone ringing with Harley’s missed call.

“Fuck off,” Harley snapped, ducking into the town car.

As they pulled out of the alley, Harley teepeed her hands in front of her face, blood still rushing in her ears as she recounted what had just happened. She went over it twice, and then a third time for good measure, trying to remember everything that had passed between her and Black Mask. She could feel Frost looking at her in the rearview mirror as they drove north, but he didn’t say anything, leaving her to her thoughts. 

The False Face Society. 

The masks, the cloaks, the theatricality, the secrecy. 

It was like a cult. 

Harley had not seen ‘cult’ coming up the pipeline, that was for damn sure. 

She reminded herself that a whole host of people could have been under those masks. The real question plaguing her now, was what Black Mask had done to convince them to follow him.

And then something occurred to Harley. Something she hadn’t thought about in a long… _long_ time, because she had gotten so used to it. Something that just seemed natural these days. 

She caught Frost’s eye in the mirror, and she could see how eager he was to help her, how dedicated he was to the Joker. It was the same way Bruno and Marty had been dedicated to the Joker. The same way Lonnie was dedicated to the Joker, along with countless others who worked for him despite being kept in the dark about ninety percent about what went down —they trusted him implicitly. 

Because they were drawn to him and believed in him. 

Just like those people in the False Face Society were drawn to and devoted to Black Mask. 

“Oh _, shit_ ,” Harley sighed, covering her face in her hands. 

Not only was she in an ‘it’s complicated’ style relationship with a charismatic narcissist, but she now had one trying to recruit her too. 

They pulled up to the curb out front of Samantha’s apartment, and Harley said goodnight to Frost, who shot her another concerned look as she dragged herself out of the car. She tried to shift her thoughts to how she would take out the judge with Victor’s help when in truth, all she could think about was the way Black Mask had spoken to her. 

How soft he was. 

That dark flutter of his eyelashes. 

How personal it had all seemed. 

Almost _gentle_. 

And _incredibly_ compelling.

She pushed open the front door, and could have sobbed in relief when she found the Joker waiting for her on the other side. He was sprawled out on Samantha’s couch, wearing his rumpled black suit with a gray shirt, tie abandoned, smoking a cigarette in near complete darkness. There was a bottle of bourbon he must have brought with him and a glass on the floor.

“Uh _oh_ ,” he hummed, catching her eye as she turned on a lamp.

“Uh oh is pretty accurate,” Harley sighed, waving at him to move his legs so she could fall on the couch beside him. “I don’t even know where to start,” she frowned, rubbing the buttery leather tops of her boots. 

The Joker took a drag off his cigarette, watching her carefully before he picked up the glass of liquor and offered it to her. Harley took an indulgent sip, relishing the sweet burn on her tongue, then she took another.

“Last time,” the Joker drawled, still eyeing her warily. “It was, ‘I know who the Riddler is and a billionaire wants to make an investment in me’.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Okay,” Harley nodded. “This time it’s I met Black Mask, he has a cult called the False Face Society, and he wants me to join it.”

The Joker was quiet for a moment, then started chuckling throatily, his eyebrow arching even higher. Harley had to laugh too. She glanced sideways at him, and they shared an amused look. 

“If _I_ had a cult, I’d ask you to join it too,” the Joker said slyly, topping up the glass and shooting her a knowing look. 

Harley chuckled and closed her eyes, preparing herself before she recounted everything that had happened from Victor onward. By the time she’d finished, the Joker had lit a fresh cigarette and was squinting at the wall behind her like he was trying to see through it. 

“Then I told Victor to fuck off, and I got in the car,” Harley finished, watching the Joker rake a hand over his jaw, his eyes rolling toward her. 

“Hmmm,” he surmised, widening his eyes conspiringly. 

“I know,” Harley agreed. “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“He’s building his _dream_ team,” the Joker squinted up at the murder board behind his head, where the names of people in the mob, big business, politics, and other shady characters were taped to the wall. “Who _wouldn’t_ want Harley Quinn on the team, huh?” 

Harley nodded mildly, agreeing in theory that she was a valuable asset to have in any city-wide take over scenario, though she loathed the idea of being an _asset_ . A thing to be used and controlled, even if Black Mask framed it differently. She could see right through that bullshit, but she _couldn’t_ shake off the feeling of being compelled by him. 

“So I guess you got a judge to kidnap, huh?” the Joker pointed out, distracting Harley from her thoughts. “You got something in mind?” 

“Something big and messy, hopefully,” Harley narrowed her eyes. “If Black Mask wants me, he should get what he paid for.” 

“Mm,” the Joker smirked rakishly at her. “Sounds like _you’re_ thinking about City Hall.”

“That _would_ get messy,” Harley grinned, welcoming the opportunity to plot something abhorrent even if it was at Black Mask’s behest. “Create a distraction, go in through the front door, grab the judge, out through the back door,” she said decisively. 

The Joker raised his eyebrows. “And by back door, you mean…” 

“Blow a hole through the wall and escape out the alley?” Harley shrugged, making the Joker giggle, which made her grin widen. 

Then she realized something, and her face fell. 

“Except we can’t use Lonnie to create a distraction,” she pointed out, catching the Joker’s eye. “I’m supposed to be doing this on my own.”

The Joker held her gaze, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip. 

“Fuck Lonnie,” he rasped at length, making Harley laugh. “Blow somethin’ up instead,” he suggested coyly. 

“The Uptown Firehouse would work,” Harley mused, visualizing the main island of Gotham. “That would fuck up the GCPD’s response time and take out some of their first responders.” She looked at the Joker, who already had his phone out, ready to order up explosive materials like the fantastic pyromaniac he was. “How much C4 would we need to blow out the back wall? Six grams?” 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he widened his eyes at her. “You tryin’ to blow us _all_ up?”

Harley laughed at him. 

“3.5 outta do it,” he advised. “About thirty for the firehouse.” 

“Alright,” Harley nodded, pulling her phone out to send Victor her list of requests. 

Then she paused, reconsidering the situation, her jaw working as she realized she was giving Black Mask precisely what he wanted. She could tell herself it was because she was playing the long game, but it felt too much like she was… _giving in_. 

“Can Frost take care of the firehouse?” Harley asked tentatively.

“There’s a guy at Marty’s,” the Joker stretched his long arms over his head. “The boys call him _Bozo…_ we give him a backpack of C4 and send him in on time, we’ll be golden.”

“Perfect,” Harley nodded, returning to her list for Victor.

_10 men - not you_

_Lots of guns - fully automatic_

_Meatpacking District - Hulu Meats Warehouse_

_4 PM tomorrow._

Victor replied with no less than a smiley face. 

Harley sighed and unzipped her boots feeling the Joker watching as she kicked them away and flopped back against the couch cushions.

Then without meaning to, she said, “He scares me.”

Harley’s eyes darted to the Joker, unsure how he would react to the prospect of her being _scared_ and wishing she hadn’t said anything. She couldn’t tell if it would make her look weak in his eyes because it sure as shit made Harley feel small and confused. 

The Joker squinted at her owlishly, like he was trying to understand something incredibly complex and was only just keeping up. Then he gave a pensive, rattly hum. 

“You don’t know what this guy’s capable of yet,” he pointed out, meeting her eye. “But _he_ doesn't know what you’re capable of either.” He raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “I sure fucking don’t.”

A warm smile spread across Harley’s face, the kind he would call _sweet_ , and she scooted closer to sit beside him. She buried her face in his shoulder, sighing as he toyed with the loose platinum waves at her shoulder. Then after a few seconds, he wound a large section of her hair around his hand, pulling it tight and tugging her head back so he could look her in the eye, his expression serious as he searched her face. 

Harley‘s pulse leaped, seeing he was thinking about the night before in the car. She closed her eyes, anticipation swooping through her as his grip on her hair tightened, and he lowered his mouth to hers. 

He kissed her lazily, making Harley sigh as she smoothed her hands up his chest and around his neck, her lips parting so his tongue could slide into her mouth, massaging hers slowly.

Harley threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling it tight as she deepened the kiss, making him hum throatily. She thought about what other things she would like to do to him with her tongue. She thought about sucking his cock, and she felt her pulse throb between her legs as arousal spread through her. 

The Joker grabbed her leg behind the knee, turning her body toward him and making her dress ride up her thighs. He planted one knee on the couch between her legs and braced his foot on the floor, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he nudged her onto her back and hovered over her.

Harley locked her knees around his hips as she ran her palms up his back, feeling the wiry muscles shifting beneath his suit jacket as she kissed him eagerly. One of his hands slid up her ribs to squeeze her breast, and Harley arched up into his touch, frustrated that the top half of her dress provided such little access. Needing to feel him, she pulled his shirt out of the back of his pants and thrust her hands beneath it, raking her nails up his back as far as his shirt and jacket would allow, and he growled quietly into her mouth, his fingers digging sharply into her waist. 

Then the tempo changed. Both of the Joker's hands were suddenly under her dress, squeezing her ass as he ground his hips against hers, making Harley pant weakly when she felt his cock, hard and rubbing against her core through their clothes.

"Fuck," she whined, her head falling back against the couch cushions while he pressed his nose against her neck and squeezed her harder. One of his hands slid down her thigh, pushing it out to the side so her foot landed on the floor, spreading her legs as his fingers trailed back up the inside of her leg, settling on the crotch of her panties.

"Hmm, frilly things," he murmured in her ear. It was supposed to be a joke, but his voice was too low and breathless. "Very _wet_ frilly things," he added slyly, pulling her underwear to the side as Harley tugged his face back up to hers, pushing her tongue in his mouth and kissing him eagerly.

He ran the tip of his finger over her pussy lightly, making Harley squirm.

"Please," she whispered breathlessly.

He grabbed her hair again, yanking her head to the side as he teased her clit and pressed his mouth against her ear.

"I _can’t_ stop thinkin’ about fucking you,” he growled in her ear, making Harley pant helplessly while she canted her hips up against his hand.

" _God,_ I missed you," she groaned.

He huffed something unintelligible against her jaw, his breath hot against her skin as he started to tug her underwear down when Harley remembered, quite vividly, about her fertility predicament and her trip to Dr Lee Thompkins in the Narrows. It was like a splash of cold water. _BABY. PREGNANT_. The words flashed in front of her eyes like neon warning signs on a dark highway.

"Wait, _waitwaitwaitwaitwait_ ," she chanted, still breathless as she disentangled her arms from his neck, and grabbed his wrists. She did some sluggish mental math. "We can't."

He lifted his head to stare at her, bewildered, and a little dazed, his hair even messier than usual, sticking up at odd angles.

" _Huh_?" He grunted incredulously, his thumbs still hooked in the waistband of her panties. Harley could feel the tension in his arms as he stopped himself from literally ripping them off.

"I have this... birth control implant in my arm," she explained haltingly, feeling ridiculous. "It releases hormones so I don't get pregnant, but I um... had a new one put in last week, and it's not... fully up and running yet. Not for..." Harley frowned and licked her lips. "Well, she said ten days. That's tomorrow but, I mean, I don't want, oh god, that would be _so_ _bad_." She knew she was babbling, but it was so... _ridiculous_... to be explaining this to _the Joker._

He was squinting at her, his thumbs tracing the lacy edge of her underwear rhythmically as he absorbed what she was saying. Then he settled on being amused, probably because she was so uncomfortable telling him, and he was an asshole.

"Well, that woulda been great," he drawled as he slid her underwear down to her knees, then guided one of her feet out, planting it firmly on the couch beside him. He shifted to kneel on the floor, and Harley felt a smile grow on her lips as he grabbed her other leg behind the knee and hooked it over his shoulder, her foot dangling free. "But uh, I had something else in mind." He smirked rakishly at her, then folded forward to run the flat of his tongue over her in a lazy stripe.

Harley sucked in a deep breath, her eyes closing as she relaxed into the couch, and gave into the sensation of his tongue stroking her, for his pleasure as much as hers if his satisfied hum was any indication. His hands moved from her waist to her hips, settling there to hold her in place as he narrowed his focus, drawing lazy figure eights over her clit, his mouth hot and wet. 

Harley sighed as he slowly began to build her up, knowing what she liked, making her heart beat faster. She gasped weakly when she started getting close, her pelvis twitching against his face, needing more from him. He laid his forearm across her stomach, holding her down as his tongue dipped inside her, electrifying her nerve endings, and making her ache when he returned to her clit, lavishing attention on it until she was huffing and squirming.

Then he dipped just a fingertip inside her to tease her, her body wet and silky for him. Harley made an anguished sound, bucking against him as he did it again, and again, and _again_. Then he finally gave in and slipped his finger inside her, up to the knuckle, pulling another breathless sound out of her as heat flooded her entire body, making her light-headed.

" _Shit,"_ Harley hissed when he found her g spot, stroking it as his tongue worked harder, his arm flat across her stomach to hold her in place as heat began to spiral through her belly. "Oh, _shit_ , _shit, shit,_ " she panted, grabbing a handful of his hair to anchor herself as he swiveled his finger inside her. 

She cried out weakly when her orgasm broke, sweeping over her and making her vision whiten around the edges. The Joker retreated from her as she lay panting, staring at the ceiling, a wonderful sense of calm settling over her for the first time in _weeks_ . She felt him wipe his fingers on the inside of her thigh before he shifted up on the couch again, bending to kiss her. She sucked on his tongue, tasting herself as her hands moved to his belt, wanting nothing more than to make him growl and sigh and _submit_ to her, but he pushed her away, pulling back to look down at her.

"I gotta go talk to the _Scarecrow_ ,” he rolled his eyes before flashing her a smirk. “Maybe I’ll say I ran into the Batman, and he was lookin’ for him.”

Harley chuckled sleepily, the idea of Crane being trapped in that shitty warehouse because of his own ego—as if the Batman would waste time on _him_ —too perfect for words. 

“Next time,” the Joker added slyly, prompting Harley to open her eyes. 

"Next time," she agreed, offering him a dreamy smile. "Try to get some sleep before tomorrow," she added as he got to his feet.

The Joker chuckled incredulously like he always did when she gave him practical advice—sleep, eat vegetables, don't play with the machete—and Harley lifted her head to see him smirking at her from the window. She smiled back at him and he lingered a moment longer before forcing himself to look away and climb down the trellis.

* * *

Vicki rarely heard from her old sources and she never reached out to them directly anymore. But after her conversation with Detective Montoya, she couldn’t stop thinking about Janice Porter’s disappearance, probably at the hands of Harley Quinn, and possibly because she was investigating Daggett Industries. Adding Harley’s hovering around Hamilton Hill and his associates, and Hill’s golden boy Sionis directly advised Daggett, and you almost had a solid story. 

So Vicki dropped an old contact at City Hall a text, and after much back and forth, they agreed to meet her for a drink at a dive bar in the University District near Vicki’s apartment.

Vicki ordered herself a beer, feeling she needed it after a day spent attempting to concentrate on Ivania Dumas’ upcoming cover feature when her mind was fully engrossed in Harley Quinn and what nightmarish things she could be getting up to with the likely future Mayor and a billionaire investor. 

“Jane,” she smiled when her contact from City Hall arrived, looking stressed and tired, as would be expected when the District Attorney disappears without a trace. “Can I get two more,” Vicki asked the bartender, employing the age-old trick of getting your source a little liquored up.

“I know what you’re doing,” Jane said by way of greeting, hauling herself up on the stool beside Vicki as the bartender set two beers in front of them. 

“It’s just a beer, Jane,” Vicki smirked, holding her drink up in cheers. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jane waved her off, taking a sip. “So what are you after? I haven’t heard from you in ages. Aren’t you like, editing the magazine now?”

“I was wondering about one of your ongoing investigations,” Vicki explained, glossing over the business of what her job was these days. “I hear you’re investigating Daggett Industries.”

“Oh, you do, huh,” Jane hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Okay, why not. Yeah, we were. Janice was really gunning for it. I mean more than she usually does.”

“Yeah?” Vicki’s pale eyebrows rose. “Why’s that?”

“She was desperate for money,” Jane said drily. “It was no secret she was ready to move onto something with a bigger paycheck, and she needed a big fucking case to get it.”

“Wow, she sounds delightful,” Vicki observed flatly.

“She was poking around all over the place looking for the big one, and I guess Daggett fit the bill.” Jane shrugged. “He took her for lunch and everything, and when she got back that day she was like, this guy is dirty.”

“Really?” Vicki’s eyes widened. “She thought John Daggett was dirty after having lunch with him?”

“I don’t know if you are aware, but Janice used to be _very_ friendly with the mob,” Jane raised a knowing eyebrow. “My job was basically covering for Sofia Falcone for a solid six months, and Oswald Cobblepot before that. Janice didn’t even bother to hide the fact that she was scared shitless Harley Quinn was gonna storm in any minute and put a bulletin in her brain. It was all out in the open, it was ridiculous.” 

“Jesus,” Vicki nearly laughed. “I mean, I knew we had corruption in City Hall, but that’s crazy.” Then she remembered what Montoya said about things being too clean. “So, what happened? Janice turns over a new leaf, Mayor Krol and Commissioner Akins say they’re gonna clean up corruption and suddenly everyone just falls in line?”

“It was _bizarre_ ,” Jane paused to sip her beer, making a face. “It took less than six months. One minute we’re covering for everyone, the next minute there’s no one to cover _for_. And not because we were putting them away—they were just disappearing. All the influential crime lords either kicked the bucket, retired, or covered all their shit up and went straight.”

“So there’s no mob anymore?” Vicki frowned. 

“No mob, no drugs, no money laundering, the murder rate drops,” Jane shrugged. “I mean we have the Batman and Black Canary to thank too, you know? But there’s still shit they had nothing to do with—they weren’t killing or disappearing criminals.”

“Yeah,” Vicki agreed, shaking her head, recalibrating. “Go back to Daggett. Was there anything other than Janice’s feeling after that lunch that he was dirty?”

“Yep, but it was really thin,” Jane nodded. “Never would have held up in court.”

“What was it?” Vicki squinted at her. 

“It was Daggett Shipping, specifically,” Jane explained. “Sometimes when you look at a company’s books, you can tell they’re too clean. Daggett Shipping’s books were spotless, and if you do this long enough you know when you’re looking at cooked books.”

“So what were they hiding?” Vicki asked. 

“Hard to say,” Jane shrugged. “But it all seemed to revolve around cargo originally picked up in Tibet, which would make its way onto Daggett’s freighters.”

“Tibet?” Vicki made a face. “What gets imported from Tibet?”

“Fucking _nothing_ ,” Jane shot Vicki a knowing look. “But like I said, it would never stand up in court. And now Janice is probably dead, and if it’s true that the Joker’s recreating his first Reign of Terror, then shit, I guess Harley Quinn got Janice in the end anyway.”

“Shit,” Vicki blinked hard, knowing there was no _way_ they were recreating _anything_. There had to be a good reason, and it seemed to revolve around Daggett Industries. “I guess maybe she did,” she sighed. 

* * *

Harley slept peacefully for the first time in weeks, and when she woke up late the next morning she managed to cling to some of that peace, focusing on the fun waiting for her at City Hall instead of the dark, stone pit beneath the Tobacconist's Club.

To be fair, shaking down her henchmen, following her, testing her with jobs, all of it was less unnerving when it came down to simply being recruited. It was a far cry better than the invasive, personal stalking she'd originally felt this interest—this _investment—_ indicated. Asking about her personal life was more like an inappropriate HR question in this context, and it was reassuring to know all they wanted from her was work. 

But knowing this intellectually and what she’d _felt_ when actually confronted with Black Mask were two very different things.

Offering her something fulfilling. Something entertaining. Something to _control_. 

That flutter of his eyelashes.

That was what was unnerving her now, not the men waiting outside her front door. 

Victor confirmed he would have an address for her to take the judge too once her ‘mission’ (his words) was completed. Harley sensed she would be taken to the False Face Society again, and either given another task to complete before she was invited to join their cult or…

 _Or..._ she didn’t know what else. She couldn’t predict Black Mask’s next move. Would he hand her a mask and a cloak and give her a schedule of meeting times? Fill her in on what they were doing? Remove the mask and show her the face beneath? 

Doubtful. 

She watched the news while she worked out to get a sense of what was happening in the outside world. The media were convinced she and the Joker killed Janice Porter even though they had nothing concrete to tie them to it. They thought they were recreating the Joker’s first reign of terror, the journalists and pundits speculating wildly over their motivations as they always did. 

They were going to go _crazy_ after they stole the judge. 

These jobs were tests to see if Black Mask could get her to do his bidding, of that Harley was sure. But whether there was a practical purpose as well was still elusive to her. 

Porter ‘causing problems’ for Lucy. Akins ‘possible investigations’ into Hill. There hadn’t even been a reason for the judge, just that Black Mask wanted it to be done, and he seemed to think that should have been enough reason.

Harley tried to picture herself doing something just because she knew it was what he wanted—because it would _please_ him. She pictured him asking in that low electronic purr, and she imagined him touching her face like he’d clearly wanted to the night before. Maybe if there had been something resembling a man beneath the mask, she would feel repelled. But Black Mask did not feel like a man. 

And that was the whole point. That was what masks and paint did to people.

Remarkably, all this speculating and analyzing didn’t dampen her mood, which was buoyed significantly after fooling around with J on Samantha’s couch. She felt _complete_ again, and that lifted her up above all of the shit facing them. 

Plus she could still hear his voice growling in her ear.

_I can’t stop thinking about fucking you_

It made Harley downright giddy. 

She got dressed with events forthcoming in mind, choosing Circe’s lavender dress. It was too short for if things turned hectic, so she found a pair of black bicycle shorts in Samantha’s drawer of workout-gear to wear beneath, the Lycra peaking out an inch or two below the dress’s short hem. 

She pulled on her beloved flat thigh high boots—they _were_ hers now— and shrugged on a shoulder holster—the Joker would have a gun for her—then buckled her fanny pack of essential items around her waist. 

When she got the Joker’s text that he and Frost were outside, she practically skipped down the stairs and across the street to the electrical van waiting for her.

“ _You’re_ lookin’ _chipper_ ,” the Joker observed, giving her thigh a quick squeeze as she slid onto the long front seat beside him. 

“I got a _great_ night’s sleep,” Harley smirked, leaning around him. “How are you, Frost?”

“I’m good, thanks, doc,” Frost rumbled, taking a drag off his cigarette. “May have had a bit too much caffeine this morning.”

“You gotta look after yourself, Frost,” Harley told him, pretending to be stern. 

“You look after me good enough, doc,” he shot her a smile, making Harley laugh and fall back in her seat. 

The Joker widened his eyes at Harley, holding up his little finger to suggest she had Frost wrapped around her finger, and she shrugged helplessly. 

“How’s Bozo doing?” she asked as they pulled onto the highway.

“He’s uh, grabbing lunch Uptown as we speak,” the Joker drawled, flashing Harley a smirk. “Fancy little Italian place right across from the fire station.”

Harley beamed at him, unable to stop herself.

“It ain’t easy getting C4 these days,” Frost jumped in, remarkably chatty. “But Bozo’s got enough to take care of things.”

“Is that why you’re so caffeinated?” Harley grinned. “You were up all night hunting down C4.”

“I was real quiet about it, doc,” Frost reassured her as the Joker’s hand landed on her thigh again, his thumb slipping inside her boot to stroke her skin. 

Harley sighed happily, her head falling back against the seat as she looked up at him, and he gave her a faint, affectionate smirk. 

When they pulled off the freeway into the Meatpacking District, Harley hopped in the back of the van, a brown paper bag holding three pots of greasepaint in her fist. She braced herself against the wall and applied a full face of warpaint without a mirror. 

As they pulled into the Hulu Meats Warehouse, the Joker slipped into the back with her, grabbing a clown mask out of a cardboard box of them, and tucking it in his back pocket.

“I gotcha something,” he said slyly, edging closer.

“Oh yeah?” Harley grinned when he produced a modified automatic from the holster under his suit jacket, offering it to her and pretending to be shy, which was downright hilarious.

“Since you can’t shoot for shit,” he smirked as Harley took the gun from him. 

It was her preferred firearm, something he’d have cobbled together himself. 

“This isn’t new,” she noted, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Crane broke it in for you,” he explained drily. “If you can believe it, he’s a worse fuckin’ shot than you are.”

Harley chuckeld as she tucked the gun in her holster, feeling another swell of giddiness when the Joker grabbed her elbow and yanked her closer. She hooked her arms around his neck and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him, and he threaded a hand in her hair, kissing her back lazily. His free hand slid down her back, lower and lower until he reached her ass, giving it a squeeze as the van slowed to a stop. 

Harley pulled away reluctantly, keeping her arms around his neck and sighing happily when she saw his mouth was smeared red with her warpaint—a reflection of her. 

“Let’s make a _mess_ ,” the Joker growled, giving her ass another squeeze before he released her to pull on the clown mask, hiding him from Black Mask’s thugs. 

The Joker grabbed the box of clown masks while Harley kicked the van’s back door open, a wonderful wave of nervous energy rolling through her.

Waiting for them in the middle of the warehouse were nine men, all of whom had armed themselves with automatics from a wooden crate still half full of guns on the floor. Some of them were smoking, and all of them were eyeing Harley warily as she strolled up to them. She examined each of them in turn, deciding Black Mask had provided her with legitimate hitmen, not just thugs, though it was hard to decide if they were the kind loyal to money or to him. 

“Hey fellas,” Harley greeted them coldly, folding her arms over her chest. “So here’s how things are going to go—”

But Harley was cut off when another car rolled into the warehouse, a small silver Prius. It sped straight up to them, coming to a sudden screeching stop.

Harley narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Ed jumped out of the backseat, wearing blue mom jeans tucked into combat boots, and a tee-shirt with _‘J’ADORE DIOR’_ printed boldly across the front, a black backpack slung over his shoulder. 

Harley’s eyes widened incredulously, and she reached for her gun. 

“Sorry, sorry! I know I’m late,” Ed apologized profusely, digging into his backpack and pulling out a pistol.

He thrust it through the Prius’s open window and shot the driver in the head, killing him instantly. 

Ed smirked and planted a hand on his hip, striking a pose. 

“It was _murder_ trying to get an Uber!” he grinned.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, ED.**

**I LOVE ED AND THERE'S SO MUCH ED TO COME.**

**We also had a decidedly intense Harley x Black Mask moment in the basement of the Tobacconist's Club. We’ll see BM (f you, BM, lol) again next week... I am very keen to find out what folks think of Harley's reaction to him...**

**And a little smuuuuuuuut. Harley's balls are no longer blue, poor J is still suffering though. LOL.**

**Finally, I loved the response to the “I don’t lie to you Harl” last week, so much, but I’m sure there are people who _didn’t_ love that. It felt like a risk. I put the Joker in this super restrictive psychopath box for theH, and I'm making the lines of that box a little blurrier this time. Running _everything_ past the DSM-V does not necessarily make for compelling, colorful characters, and it's pretty creatively stifling, too. Ditto for Harley and Ed. I think they and we can all agree, labels don't matter.  
**

**ANYWAY, we are on chapter ten and things are finally kicking off after a HUGE ramp up.**

_**Next: Harley and J attack City Hall (with Ed’s help), and Black Mask makes Harley question herself (and the smut kicks up a notch).** _

**It’s date night next week, people.**

**Join us on Tumblr to fan-girl (or boy), I’m[knit-wear-it,](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/) and my asks are (almost) always open.**

**We got out first piece of[fan art of the Joker](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/628858748862169088/what-are-you-gonna-do-about-harley-boss) this week from the wonderful Drea. <3**

**Also, if you want a lolz head-canon for the "Don't Play With The Machete" incident, you can[read that here. ](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/629262268855681024/can-we-please-get-a-background-on-that-machete)**

**Please comment & review! I'm an addict! **


	11. Chapter 11

_Theme: Pulp - 'This Is Hardcore' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/1so0qYkfkiZNNcvJN02qdo?si=CoLlqq9_Sy2n_6Okx8zKvg)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/6OkVAcdyo8Y)) _

* * *

The Pantomime

11.

* * *

Harley stared at Ed as he ducked down to squint at his Uber driver, double-checking to be sure he was dead. Then he swung back around to beam at her cheerfully.

She pulled her gun from its holster and thumbed the safety off but didn’t point it at him. Behind her the Joker threw the box of clown masks into the ring of Black Mask’s thugs while Frost grunted at them to take one each, distracting them from Harley’s confrontation with Ed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harley demanded, keeping her voice low.

“Um, _working_?” Ed made a face like he thought she was being unreasonable. 

“Working?” Harley scoffed. “You’re a _bartender_ , Ed.”

“Uh, no, I’m a bartender who _freelances_ for the Odessa gang,” he corrected her, then cupped his hands around his mouth like he was telling her a secret. “ _And I’m also the Riddler,”_ he hissed, making Harley scowl impatiently.

“What… are you doing here,” she growled, her blackened eyes flashing dangerously, and she saw Ed shift uncomfortably even though he tried to hide it.

“Alexandra sent a text around saying she had a job,” he shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself defensively, putting on a little _performance_. “I replied and here I am.”

“Alexandra?” Harley narrowed her eyes. “Alexandra _Kosov_?”

“Well, duh,” Ed lifted a bemused eyebrow. “She controls all the muscle in town. Who do you think sent you these guys?” Then he squinted at her. “Wait, who _did_ you think sent you these guys?”

“You really expect me to believe _you_ count as muscle?” Harley demanded, looking down at his mom jeans and the _‘J’Adore Dior’_ tee shirt. 

“Actually, _Harley,_ I think you will find I am a very good shot _and_ pretty good in a fight,” Ed lifted his chin imperiously. “I didn’t learn how to carry off a heist on _youtube_ , ya know.” 

Harley ran her tongue over her bottom lip, thinking fast. She didn’t have time to argue with him, or kill him for that matter, but if she kept him close then she could question him later, and possibly take out some of her _frustration_ on him then too.

“Fine, you can come,” she agreed, searching his hazel eyes. They were wide and excited. “But if you fuck with me, Ed, I will put a bullet in your brain,” she hissed, her hand swiping through the air, making him flinch. “I won’t even kill you slow. You’ll just be _gone_ , okay?”

“Okay, _jeez,_ ” he agreed, rolling his eyes.

Harley spun on her heel, her teeth grinding, her good mood completely ruined because the fucking _Riddler_ was coming along on her job. 

Black Mask’s thugs—who were really Alexandra Kosov’s thugs according to Ed, something else to consider—were pulling the clown masks on, some of them looking reluctant, others more at ease with the idea.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” Harley snapped once Frost and the Joker were flanking her again. “We go in through the front door, we make a _mess_ , we go up to the second floor and grab the judge, we go out the back door. Any questions?”

She glared around at the clown masks, daring them to ask, but they all smartly stayed silent.

“Ground rules,” Harley continued hotly. “Kill everyone. I don’t care if it’s an old lady or a kid, kill anyone who comes in your path. Everyone but the judge. That’s it.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and jumped back into the van, the Joker and the rest of the clowns following her lead while Frost slid behind the wheel. 

Harley braced herself against that back of Frost’s seat, trying to focus on the task at hand, which was supposed to be a fun one. She looked around at the clowns’ masked faces, all of them uniformly silent and swaying with the motion of the van as it pulled onto the freeway. Even the Joker dialed down his usual vibrating frequency for the sake of not standing out. 

Ed, on the other hand…

He squeezed past the other clowns to get to her, his mask sitting on top of his elaborately coiffed hair. 

“Don’t talk to me,” Harley warned him, making Ed tisk quietly, at least aware that he shouldn’t cause a scene.

“Look, I just wanna say I thought that was a great speech,” he gushed flirtatiously. “And I had some ideas like—“

Harley shot the Joker a sidelong look and he immediately stepped forward. He grabbed Ed by the throat and slammed him up against the side of the van, holding him there easily. Ed was taller and remarkably strong, as Harley knew first hand, but the Joker was stronger. 

Ed struggled, coughed, and whined unhappily at the vacant clown mask covering the Joker’s face, and Harley waited for him to realize escape was futile before she leaned in close, seeing she had Ed’s full attention. 

“You are only alive right now because I am allowing it,” she informed him quietly, searching his face. “And if you survive this, we need to have a little _chat,_ you and I.”

The Joker released Ed, who gasped dramatically while the Joker moved back to stand beside Harley. She watched impassively as Ed pulled himself together, shooting her another kicked-puppy look before he squatted down next to his backpack. 

He pulled out a holster, which had about fifteen rounds of ammunition stashed in it and a second pistol. Once he’d secured the holster around his shoulders, he _did_ look like he knew what he was doing, even though Harley knew him to be a shallow, attention-seeking moron. 

Or at least he _pretended_ to be a moron. 

Perhaps trying to inject some levity, the Joker discreetly groped Harley’s ass a few minutes later, making her smile reluctantly. His hand drifted to the short hem of her dress, and he slipped two fingers beneath it to trace the seam of her thighs, up, up, up… 

Harley swatted him away and brushed her hair over her shoulder, using the gesture to shoot him a warning look. She couldn’t see his face behind the clown mask, but there was no doubt he was smirking as he sighed like he was deeply afflicted. 

Miraculously, Ed managed to keep his mouth shut—and the Joker his hands to himself—for the rest of the drive into Midtown. 

Frost pulled up out front of City Hall, and J gave Harley’s ass a light smack as she checked her phone, waiting for the digital clock to tick over to 4.45 PM. They only had to wait a full five seconds before there was an explosion in the distance. Not a demolition style exposition, but big enough to blow out the inside of the firehouse. 

Sirens started wailing outside as police cruisers and fire engines sped Uptown, and Harley forced herself to wait another full five minutes before she finally made the call. 

“Let’s go,” she announced, her toes curling in her boots. 

She heard the Joker release a low, satisfied growl that made her pulse leap.

The clowns trooped out of the back van, rushing across the pavement and up the steps of City Hall. Harley jumped out with the Joker and Ed flanking her, two more clowns pulling up the rear behind them. They jogged up the steps and burst into the building's main atrium, automatic gunfire and screaming immediately filling the air.

The first time Harley was in a firefight, her ears had rung for days. She’d been terrified, the constant rattle of bullets making her heart pound over the prospect of being shot at any moment. But even then, she’d enjoyed the thrill of it. She just hadn’t known what to _do_ with that thrill, though she’d bluffed her way through as best she could. But now she knew how to ride that wonderful wave of adrenaline and danger. How to enjoy it, _thrive_ in it. And these days, a little bit of tinnitus only ever lasted a few hours, and she hardly even noticed it.

They reached the curving staircase, where mayors and DAs and police commissioners occasionally gave speeches. Ed jogged up backward to cover them from behind, being remarkably efficient though there was a flamboyant little _flair_ in every move he made. Harley was pretty sure she heard a “ _Yee-haw_!” over the rattle of bullets. 

He just couldn’t help himself. 

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the whole building was in active shooter lockdown. Hiding under their desks and leaving the clowns free to stomp toward Judge Chiecco’s office at the end of the hall.

Harley and the Joker overtook the other clowns, and after exchanging a quick look to agree on a plan of action, the Joker grabbed Ed by the back of his tee-shirt and dragged him to the front of the pack with them.

Harley kicked open the judge’s office door, and the Joker threw Ed inside, making him sputter indignantly while the other clowns bottlenecked out in the hall. 

Harley dropped into a squat while the Joker hovered above her, both of them using the office door for cover as they mowed down the remaining clowns—Black Mask’s thugs, Alexandra Kosov’s hitmen, whoever they were—in the hallway. Some of them fired off a few rounds, some of them tried to make a break for it, all of them ultimately ended up dead.

Harley ejected the empty magazine from her gun and reloaded as the Joker darted back out into the hall, pulling a plastic bag holding a wad of C4 from his suit jacket. Harley shoved Ed aside as she stomped toward the judge’s desk, where he and his assistant were hiding.

Ed ripped off his clown mask, looking bewildered as Harley reached under the desk and grabbed the judge by the collar of his shirt. She yanked him to his feet and shot his assistant in the face, ignoring their pleas for mercy. 

“Move!” she snapped at the judge, holding her gun to his head.

“Wait, what is—?” Ed started to ask. 

“Cover your ears!” Harley ordered, shooting Ed a dirty look suggesting now was not the time to be _chatty_.

The Joker loped back into the office, slamming the door shut before he rushed up to Harley. He wrapped his arm around her head to pillow both her ears while she held onto the judge, then slapped his hands over his ears, prompting Ed to do the same.

Harley counted down the seconds till the blast. She could feel the Joker’s heart pounding against her back through his shirt, and she could smell the gunpowder on his suit jacket where it was pressed against her face. She could smell _him_ beneath that, and even with everything happening around them, she breathed him, feeling a little _giddy_ to be so close to him. 

The C4 detonated, blowing the office door off its hinges and making the walls around them shudder. The Joker released Harley and grabbed a bewildered Ed by the back of his shirt, dragging him out of the office and shoving him through the gaping hole they’d just blown through the back wall. 

Ed shrieked girlishly, landing with a thud on the roof of the van waiting for them below. 

The Joker jumped down next, landing lightly and twisting around in time for Harley to shove the judge out. He screamed bloody murder as he fell, and screamed even louder when he landed. Harley jumped next, rolling to absorb the shock while the Joker dragged the judge off the roof and Ed swung off the side with Harley following him. 

Frost revved the engine while the Joker manhandled the judge into the back, kicking the door open wide. 

Harley turned to look at Ed, who was standing in the middle of the alley, watching them warily. 

“Time for that chat, Ed,” Harley snapped, gesturing to the back of the van.

Ed looked between the van and the busy Midtown street behind him, his eyes wide. 

“ _Ed_ ,” Harley shot him a warning look.

“Listen,” Ed wheedled, offering her a sheepish smile as he started to back up, shrugging out of his holster and dropping it. “This has been _swell_ and all, but when you say _chat_ , I kinda think you mean… beat up or torture or murder soooo…”

Then he turned and bolted down the alley, as remarkably fast on his feet as he was strong.

Harley considered shooting him, but it didn’t feel right, so she hopped into the back of the van instead.

Frost took off once the door slammed shut, using some of those evasive maneuvers he was so good at.

* * *

The Gotham Globe HQ had been in lockdown for nearly three hours. Reports were coming in that at least twenty-three people had been killed in a mass shooting at City Hall, gunned down by men in clown masks led by Harley Quinn. 

Vicki remained in her corner office on the tenth floor, sharing a small bottle of vodka with Knox and replying to texts from Bruce, reassuring him that she was okay and did not need him to get her via helicopter off the roof. She didn’t think she could face him at the moment anyway. Knox and vodka were about the most she could cope with considering Harley was out there killing people without remorse. Killing as many people as possible, it seemed. 

Then she got a text from Jane, her contact at City Hall.

 _They took Judge Chiecco,_ the text read. _He issued a warrant for Daggett Shipping. Had more in the pipeline._

“Shit,” Vicki murmured. 

All three of Harley and the Joker’s victims had been investigating Daggett Shipping.

“You got something, Vale?” Knox asked, _his_ sense for a story tingling. 

“Um,” Vicki floundered, running a hand over her hair as she tried to decide what to do.

She dug out Renee Montoya’s card from her wallet and tried calling her desk and her cell, but both were engaged. 

After leaving a voicemail asking Montoya to please give her a call back, she set her phone back on her desk.

“Everything okay?” Knox asked, passing her the vodka. 

“Yeah,” Vicki replied faintly.

They weren’t recreating the Joker’s first reign of terror. They were shutting down an investigation into Daggett Shipping. And they were covering it up by manipulating the police and the media into thinking it was clown-business as usual. 

Vicki tried calling Montoya again, but she still got no answer.

* * *

After escaping the cops on the Eastside—Frost showing off some even fancier driving moves than Harley had seen yet—they ditched the electrical van for an old station wagon, which had been strategically left down an alley the night before. 

It was dark by the time they'd transferred the unconscious judge to the back of the station wagon, and from there, they headed to Chinatown, parking in an alley while Frost picked up dinner.

Harley and the Joker sat in the backseat, slumped down even though they'd wiped their warpaint off, both in good moods despite the whole Ed factor.

"Do you think Alexandra sent him on purpose?" Harley asked. She was sprawled across the backseat, her feet in the Joker's lap.

"Who the fuck knows," he shrugged, flicking a cigarette butt out the window. "Sure does _sound_ like she's workin’ for Black Mask, though."

"Black Mask needs men, Alexandra rounds them up and sends them to him," Harley mused, watching the Joker unzip one of her boots slowly. "She's an anarchist. She must not realize she's working with people connected to Hamilton fucking Hill."

"Mm," the Joker agreed, stroking the back of her knee absentmindedly.

Harley fought back a smile and looked out the back window, checking for people. But Chinatown was nearly always empty at night, the sounds of police sirens from their attack on City Hall far away in the distance. 

Thinking that perhaps this was a good enough time for the promised _next time,_ Harley sat up and crawled across the backseat, feeling giddy again.

The Joker ran his tongue over his bottom lip, smirking faintly when she climbed into his lap to straddle him and cupped his face in her hands. They exchanged a lingering look, and Harley bent down to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip between her teeth playfully. His hands smoothed up her sides, squeezing her as she let her fingers trail down his neck, his chest, his stomach, and he made a low _purring_ sound when she traced the top of his belt, making her pulse throb happily. Her hand slid down to cup him through his pants, and when she licked the scar splitting his bottom lip with a wet swipe of her tongue, he sighed throatily, his cock growing hard in her hand.

Then Frost returned, knocking on the window as if he knew by now what would happen if he left them alone in the back of a car for longer than two minutes. 

The Joker released a low, frustrated growl when Harley pulled away from him, offering him a pout as she slid back across the seat and tugged her boot on.

Frost handed out Chinese food, and J did his usual routine of inhaling the food to absorb calories instead of tasting it. Harley was nibbling on an egg roll when her burner beeped with a text from Victor, making her groan, because she had almost, _almost_ forgotten that was what they’d been killing time waiting for. 

“Fuck,” she sighed, setting her food aside as she read the address. No smiley face this time. 

It was a number on Route 4, the two-lane, nearly-always-deserted highway that led out of the city to the Palisades, where the millionaires and billionaires lived.

Harley sighed and pulled Pam’s phone out of her fanny pack, turning on the GPS—something Lonnie explicitly told her not to do unless absolutely necessary—so she could pull up a map, and she hummed dubiously when she saw where she was going.

“It’s the middle of nowhere on Route 4,” she announced, glancing at the Joker, who was bent forward as Frost lit his cigarette for him. 

He fell back in his seat and raised his eyebrows appraisingly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 

“Standard drop off,” he shrugged, tapping ash on the floor. “Ya get out, they take him off your hands, you take off, job done.”

“He’s going to want to talk to me,” Harley predicted, remembering that flutter of long eyelashes behind Black Mask’s mask. “Maybe with his cult. Maybe alone…” 

She could feel the Joker watching her closely. 

“Could be an old farmhouse, doc,” Frost piped up. “There’s plenty of those off Route 4.”

“Great,” Harley said drolly. “First the creepy basement, now an abandoned farmhouse.”

“In fairness,” the Joker drawled. “You’ve made use of abandoned _slaughterhouses_ more than once.”

He was trying to make her laugh, but that sense of uncertainty Harley struggled with for weeks was sneaking back in, dragging her down and making her question herself. 

Her burner beeped with another message from Victor. 

_Soon pls._

She grumbled discontentedly under her breath.

“I’m being summoned,” she said sourly, catching the Joker’s eye. 

There was a long, exceptionally tense silence, and then Frost piped up to fill it. 

“I saw a car no one’ll miss back there, boss,” he rumbled. “Want me to nab it?”

“Mm,” the Joker seemed to agree, his eyes still lingering on Harley.

She sighed loudly. “Alright,” she said, pushing her door open. “Let’s get this over with.”

They all climbed out of the car, and the Joker caught Harley’s eye over the hood again before he loped off after Frost to steal a car. Harley ducked behind the wheel, trying not to let the uncertainty sweep her away as she headed for the freeway.

As she drove north, she tried to tell herself she would come out on top like she always did. She _wasn’t_ scared, just anxious over all the unknown, and she reminded herself that she thrived when she didn’t give a shit. 

But Black Mask made her doubt herself.

Route 4 was deserted, a lone Mazzarati the only car she passed as she followed the map on Pam’s phone, slowing when she saw a pair of headlights on the side of the road, exactly where she was supposed to stop. 

Harley pulled over behind the car so they were trunk to trunk, and squinted out the window at her surroundings.

To her left was more thick forest. 

To her right was… 

A cemetery.

“Oh Jesus,” Harley muttered, killing the station wagon’s engine and climbing out.

She strolled to the back of the station wagon, where Victor was waiting with two burly thugs, their hair clipped short, tattoos hidden beneath nice-ish suits. They may have been muscle for Alexandra Kosov at one point, but they belonged to Black Mask now. 

They were standing beside a BMW—no surprise—it’s trunk popped, watching Harley expectantly as she unlocked the station wagon.

“He’s all yours,” she said flatly, waving her arm at the judge. 

“Boss wants a word with you, Harley,” Victor offered her a crooked smirk.

Harley shrugged wordlessly, which Victor took as enough acquiescence to gesture for her to follow him across the highway into the cemetery. 

It was old, some of the headstones dating to the early 1800s from what Harley could see. There were crumbling stone angels and elaborate crosses looming overhead, dynastic mausoleums as well as newer graves from the past few decades, some with dying flowers for the more recently deceased. 

Harley spotted names she recognized. Crowne. Dumas. Kane. Elliott.

This was where Gotham’s oldest families and wealthiest citizens buried their dead. 

Dread started to creep into Harley’s gut. She felt like she was putting herself in unnecessary danger, every instinct she possessed warning her this was not a smart move.

Then Victor stopped in front of one of the mausoleums. It was old but well maintained, a combination of old stone and white marble where the stone was deteriorating. There was a low wall in front, cornering off a small garden with fresh flowers. Someone still cared for this crypt. 

And there was a name etched over the mausoleum's entrance, which was standing ajar. 

Harley narrowed her eyes.

 _Wayne_. 

It was the Wayne Family Crypt. 

“Boss is waiting for you inside,” Victor informed Harley slyly, but she didn’t reply. 

Then she started to get angry.

They were trying to _fuck_ with her again.

Harley ran her tongue over her teeth before plowing forward. She slipped through the marble wall standing ajar, her instincts again warning her this wasn’t a smart move.

Inside, the crypt smelled like old air, possibly because no one had been in there for over twenty years when Thomas and Martha Wayne were interred. There were eight tombs. The final resting places of Bruce Wayne’s ancestors. The floors were marble slabs engraved with names for younger corpses buried beneath, including Thomas and Martha. 

Harley stopped on top of Martha’s grave, her eyes narrowing at the dark figure waiting for her, wearing an expensive suit and a black mask, a gloved hand trailing over one of the tombs. 

“Harley,” Black Mask greeted her, a low, vibrating purr that sent a shiver rolling up her spine. _Especially_ hearing it say her name while they were alone. “It seems you had a successful afternoon,” he observed. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Harley replied, watching warily as he took a few steps closer.

“You killed all of my men,” he pointed out. “Why?”

Harley raised an eyebrow.

“Because they weren’t my men,” she shrugged. “They weren’t loyal to me. I had no use for them once they did what I needed.”

He nodded like he understood and looked down at the tomb his hand was resting on.

“You would have made a formidable General in a different world,” he observed, looking up at her. “And you created a successful distraction without my help. In less than twenty-four hours. All on your own?”

“Oh, come on,” Harley drawled. “I have to have some secrets.”

He walked straight up to her, and Harley’s pulse started to beat frantically in her throat. But she held her ground, meeting his gaze evenly when he stopped in front of her.

“I wish you would tell me your secrets,” Black Mask said softly, searching her face.

The tiny hairs at the back of Harley’s neck stood on end. She wasn’t sure what he meant, and she was even more uncertain if she even wanted to know or ask. 

She licked her lips.

“I gave a mentally ill man a backpack of C4 and some money for lunch,” she said calmly, giving Black Mask what he wanted, giving him a win. “He walked into the fire station when I told him to, and detonated the charges.”

It occurred to Harley again that she had been giving him win after win, over and over again under the guise of playing him.

Was she the one being played? 

There was a long pause, and then Black Mask chuckled, a rattly vibration through the voice modifier.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked her gently. 

“Your offer to give me what you think I want in exchange for joining your cult?” Harley scoffed. “Pretend this is about some kind of collectivism all you want if that’s what works for your… _friends_.” She rolled her eyes. “I know what you really want.”

His eyes drifted over her, lingering on her neck. “Do you, Harley?”

Harley saw a flutter of long eyelashes behind the mask. 

“You’re right,” he agreed softly, stepping closer so they were toe-to-toe. “I need you.”

He sounded so sincere. Harley’s eyes widened.

“Do you want to be needed?” he asked, his head tipping to the side.

Harley could only stare at him, shocked and once again, _compelled_. 

“Take off the mask,” she said quietly, her voice lower than she’d meant it to be. 

He stared down at her thoughtfully for a long moment.

“Not yet,” he replied gently. “We need to trust each other first.”

“Trust,” Harley said, thinking fast, trying to turn the situation around. “How about you stop fucking around and be honest with me.”

“You value honesty,” he observed. “Fascinating.”

Harley swallowed thickly, uncertain how to reply. 

“I need something from you first,” he continued. “A person who works for the Joker. They call him Anarky.”

Harley raised one eyebrow, bemused. “ _Who_?”

“A hacker of some considerable skill,” Black Mask explained mildly. “I have yet to find someone who knows his real name, but they say he has anarchist tattoos and is loyal to the Joker.” 

Harley froze to stop herself from reacting. 

_Lonnie._

“Anarky,” Harley said slowly. “A hacker.”

He was watching her very closely. 

“Alright,” she said warily. “I’ll look into it.”

Black Mask chuckled softly, pleased that he’d gotten her to agree to another one of his requests. Another opportunity for her to make him happy. Harley grit her teeth.

“You should know I don’t react well when people try to use me,” she informed him hotly, her eyes flashing. “Or _control_ me.”

“I don’t want to control you,” Black Mask insisted, shifting forward so he was even closer, making Harley’s pulse flutter. “I want us to have a symbiotic relationship.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Harley demanded.

“It means... I will give you what you desire,” he explained, his eyes darting around her face, intent. “And the only thing I ask for in return…” he caught her eye, and Harley’s breath seemed to catch. “Is that you submit to me.”

Something about those words made Harley’s entire body tense up, words with obvious meaning that should have horrified her. 

But she wasn’t horrified. Harley searched for it, but she couldn’t find it. 

Black Mask’s hand raised between them just as it had the night before. He wanted to touch her. She knew it. 

“Take off the mask,” Harley breathed impulsively, her blood pounding in her ears.

“Bring me Anarky,” he countered, his voice raspy even through the modifier. “And I will.”

Harley held his gaze a moment longer, then she turned on her heel and marched out of the mausoleum, her heart racing. She pushed past Victor and nearly sprinted through the cemetery, back across the street to the station wagon, and threw herself behind the wheel. 

She released a shaky breath as she turned the key in the ignition, but before she could put the car in drive, she felt her stomach churn, and she only just got the door open in time to vomit into the street. 

Harley sat back behind the wheel, breathing hard through her nose, the back of her throat burning.

Then she put the car in drive and headed back to Gotham.

* * *

As soon Harley pulled onto the freeway, a BMW pulled up behind her, not bothering to be discrete, not even bothering to follow the accepted two car lengths rule. It followed her all the way back to Otisberg and parked right out front Samantha’s apartment, making Harley’s teeth grind together as she glared at them in the rearview mirror. 

She hurried upstairs, still feeling shaken, sick and frustrated, and also not sure what the hell her next move was supposed to be now that she’d agreed to look into delivering Lonnie to Black Mask.

Fucking _Lonnie_.

She left the lights off and paced from the front door to the living room and back again three times, stopping in front of her murder board and staring at the names, her jaw twitching.

Then her burner beeped, and to her great relief, it was the Joker. 

_BA_

He was at their safehouse in Burnley Arms. 

She shucked her holster and left the lavender dress on Samantha’s bedroom floor, changing into cut-off denim shorts and a Hawaiin-print shirt that had been the Joker’s until she chopped it up to fit her. She tied the cropped ends in a knot at her waist, going braless as she typically did when she wasn’t _pretending_. 

Then she climbed out the living room window and down the trellis leading into the communal garden below, just as the Joker had done the night before, so her babysitters wouldn’t spot her. 

Once she was on the street again, she looked around for a car no one would miss, and eventually found a dusty Toyota that looked lonely. She smashed the window with a rock, let herself in and hotwired it, then drove east to Burnley Arms, obsessively replaying her conversation with Black Mask in her head. Especially the request for Lonnie— _Anarky_ , he’d called him. 

She parked in front of an old public housing block and wound through its twisting brick corridors until she arrived at their safe house. She started to pull the brick out of the wall where the key was kept when the front door opened, and the Joker appeared, shirtless and barefoot, his lanky arms braced against the door frame.

He took a drag off his cigarette, his eyes rolling over her. Then he flicked the butt away and pushed the door open wider so Harley could step inside. 

The door closed, and they stood in the dark hallway looking at one another for a long moment, and Harley realized she wasn’t in a talking mood after all. 

She closed the small space between them, her hands wrapping around the base of his skull as she pulled his mouth down to hers. He grabbed a handful of her hair and slung his arm around her waist, his tongue sneaking past her lips as she shoved him up against the wall. 

Harley kissed him frantically, pouring all of her frustration and confusion into it as she ran her hands over his chest and his shoulders and down his arms, desperate to touch as much of him as she could. 

She pulled back, her breathing shaky as she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants while he yanked apart the knot tying her top closed. She shrugged the flimsy garment off, and his hands closed around her waist, lifting her off her feet as he staggered across the narrow hallway. 

Harley’s back hit the wall hard, knocking the wind out of her as she wrapped her legs around him. His mouth moved from her lips to her neck while his hands spread over her, groping and palming and _squeezing_ her until she was panting weakly and rocking against him, arousal pooling wet between her thighs. 

The Joker dropped her abruptly, making her breath catch as he spun her around to face the wall. Harley braced herself against the plaster, her heart pounding while he made short work of the button and zip on her denim shorts, then squeezed his hand inside. He hummed throatily in her ear, his fingers skating over her, and he pressed his hips forward against her ass so she could feel his cock getting hard. Harley groaned weakly as warm tendrils of pleasure bloomed low in her belly, his hand between her legs working her into a frenzy. 

When her knees started to feel weak, Harley pushed away from the wall and forced the Joker back across the hallway until he hit the wall opposite. She whipped around to face him, dropping to her knees before he could pull her close, and yanking his unzipped pants down far enough to free him.

She wrapped her hand around his cock and looked up at him, watching his face as she drew him between her lips hungrily and without delay. His hand slid into her hair, pulling it to the side so he could see her better as she swirled her tongue around him, relishing the deeply arousing sensation of having him hard between her lips.

She listened to his breathing grow shallow as she bobbed up and down his length, only releasing him when he pulled on her hair, urging her to her feet. His mouth collided with hers again, and Harley kissed him back eagerly, her heart thundering in her chest as he swung her around and backed her into the bedroom. 

She sucked in a startled breath when he shoved her down on the bed, still covered in a dusty sheet left over from the last time they'd been there six months earlier. He was on top of her a second later, kissing her urgently as he wrestled her shorts and underwear down her legs.

Harley kicked her shorts away while he rid himself of his pants, then knelt between her legs when she spread them for him. He pitched forward to take one of her breasts into his mouth, his tongue teasing a pink nipple while his hands spread over her. Harley closed her eyes, feeling overwhelmed as his mouth moved down her ribs to her stomach and then her hip as he shuffled down the bed. His fingers dug into the soft skin behind her knee as he dragged one of her legs over his shoulder, and when he finally tasted her, a low growl escaped his throat that made Harley’s body throb with unabashed lust. 

He didn’t bother to go slow or tease her, his tongue zig-zagging over her clit eagerly, making her moan quietly at the sudden onslaught of sensation. He slipped his middle finger inside her without warning, his breath fanning out over her when he found the most sensitive spot there and stroked it with the pad of his finger.

"Right there," Harley whispered breathlessly, even though it was obvious, and he already knew exactly how to touch her, her body squeezing his finger tight as she arched off the bed. 

Too soon, Harley could feel herself on the verge of climax, her body trembling, and she forced herself to push him away, not ready for it to be over yet. The Joker sat up, and Harley immediately rolled on top of him, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, her heart pounding against her ribs. 

The ache between her legs was almost dizzyingly intense, and there were a few agonizing seconds filled by heavy breathing as he guided himself inside her. His hands moved to her waist as Harley took over, sinking down on his cock slowly, her thighs straining as she spread them wider to take more of him. She gasped happily in his ear when he bottomed out inside her, filling her completely. And after a moment of languishing in that feeling of being thoroughly connected to him, Harley started to fuck him slowly, his hands on her waist guiding her up and down, letting her set the pace.

Harley wrapped her arms around the Joker’s neck, pressing her chest against his so she could feel his heart thudding against hers, his breath heavy in her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar smell of gunpowder and sweat, then lifted her head to slide her lips up the column of his throat, her tongue slipping out to lick his leaping pulse.

One of his hands sank into her hair at the back of her head, tightening to a fist until it felt like he would pull it out by the root. She began moving faster under the guidance of his hand on her lower back, and she dug her teeth into his shoulder, muffling a whine as threads of pleasure unfurled through her body, making her nipples tighten as they rubbed against his hard, warm chest.

It had been a month since they'd last been together, an awful, miserable month. But all of it washed away now that they were together. It was just them, alone, connected. No one and nothing else existed.

Everything else, the entire world, all of it could burn.

The Joker yanked Harley's head back, making her heart stutter when she met his eye. He was watching her grimly, his eyes traveling over her face and neck like he was drinking her in. Harley’s lips parted wordlessly as she raked her nails down his back and fucked him harder, her chest heaving and her pleasure growing to a blinding fever pitch. Then he thrust up harder to meet her rolling hips, hitting her deeper and making her moan weakly when she found the friction she needed to cum. 

"Fuck me," she begged, and she saw his jaw tense as he pulled her down onto him roughly, making her gasp as her core started to flutter deliciously. "I'm going to come," she panted, her heart slamming against her breastbone as he doubled his efforts, his sharp fingers digging into her skin both satisfying and painful.

Harley did not bother to be quiet when she came, expressing the lust and pleasure tumbling through her body loudly and without restraint, which was the only way she knew how to live anymore. Her body pulsed around him, squeezing his cock and making him growl as he pitched forward to press his face against her neck, finishing inside her.

Harley rode her orgasm out, not wanting it to stop, never wanting to be separated from him again, feeling _content_. But eventually, the waves of pleasure started to subside, leaving her fuzzy and exhausted, and she slumped forward against him, panting.

The Joker fell back on the bed, pulling her with him, and Harley rolled bonelessly to the side, landing on her back beside him. She let herself have a minute to recuperate, breathing hard through her nose as his hand landed on her thigh possessively.

"We have a problem," Harley said breathlessly, staring at the ceiling.

"No shit," he muttered, squeezing her leg. "What happened?"

“Well, it wasn’t a farmhouse,” she started, licking her lips. “It was a cemetery.” She glanced at the Joker to see he was already looking at her. “Victor took me into the Wayne Family crypt to talk to Black Mask.”

“The _Wayne_ Family _crypt_ ” His eyes widened, and he lifted himself on his elbow to look down at her. “Like, _pretty_ boy _prince_ of Gotham _Bruce_ Wayne?”

“Yeah,” Harley nodded. “There’s a reason he took me there. I just don’t know what yet. But that’s… that’s not the problem.” She closed her eyes. “He wants me to give him Lonnie… as a test.”

There was a stretch of silence, and Harley looked up to see the Joker frowning deeply, his tongue prodding the scar splitting his bottom lip more aggressively than usual. 

“Black Mask asked Sly about Lonnie too,” she reminded him. “But he still doesn’t know his name. He called Lonnie Anarky.” 

“Fuckin’ _Lonnie_ ,” the Joker muttered, and then more gruffly, “Why the _fuck_ does he want Lonnie?”

Harley shrugged helplessly, entirely at a loss. “He must want to use him for something. Maybe he needs him to do a job... Or maybe… he just doesn’t want _you_ to have Lonnie.”

The Joker hummed low in his throat, his jaw twitching, and Harley could see he was considering just killing Lonnie to take that piece off the chessboard. The problem with that was Lonnie was really, _really_ useful. It wouldn’t be a stretch to call him a secret weapon, or at least a crucial element to their ability to evade capture and instigate chaos in Gotham, especially considering the Batman’s more advanced technology. Harley couldn’t stand Lonnie, but even she could see he was uniquely talented. 

She sighed and raked a hand through her hair, thinking about what else Black Mask had said to her. 

“He’s a charismatic narcissist—that’s the textbook personality type of a cult leader,” she said. “The false face society and anyone else who’s working for him, he’s convinced them he’s the only one who can run the city and give them each what they want. He’s trying to do the same thing to me, and it’s… annoyingly effective.”

She could feel the Joker staring at her, and she forced herself to look at him. 

“ _Effective_?” he asked her quietly, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah, like,” Harley licked her lips. “Like he can vocalize what he thinks I want in a way that makes me want it, makes me believe he can give it to me if I… _submit_ to him.”

She glanced at the Joker, who was still staring at her in the darkness. She knew jealousy wasn’t something he was burdened with, but possessiveness was, just as it was for her. Harley could almost see it throbbing through him now, the very idea of her _submitting_ to anyone making him _twitchy_ . The idea of someone _controlling_ her making him _angry_ , which wasn’t an easy feat. 

“J,” Harley said grimly, catching his eye. “This guy is full of shit, and I’m not falling for it. He’s trying to fuck with me so he can use me to take over the city, that’s it.”

It didn’t feel like the whole truth, and the Joker seemed to realize that.

He raked a greasy flop of hair off his face, his shoulders rolling as he visibly shook off whatever he was feeling—frustration, anger, and more than likely a very _violent_ desire to make a _point_. Harley could read him well enough by now to see it all. 

“ _Submit_ ,” the Joker scoffed. “He’s got a _nasty_ surprise waitin’ for him if he doesn’t realize how _that’s_ gonna go.”

Harley sighed, relieved that he wasn’t disappointed, that he didn’t see her as _weak_ . He just _believed_ in her, which she desperately needed in that moment. She realized this exchange was another example of them talking about _feelings_ , an idea she would usually scorn. But this was different. She didn’t know how else or who else she was supposed to tell this to. And if she kept it inside, it would swallow her whole. She _needed_ to tell him.

And somehow, it made her feel even _closer_ to him. Something she’d thought was impossible. 

She dropped her hand on the Joker’s forearm where it was lying on the bed between them, her hand closing around it possessively. Her thumb swiped over the shiny rectangle of scar tissue there, the product of a skin grafter and his penchant for pissing off the mob before he was even really the Joker. Harley was the only one who knew where all of his scars came from, and just thinking about it made a heady sense of ownership roll over her. She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling overwhelmed. 

“That all sounds like dickhead billionaire behavior to me,” the Joker muttered moodily. “You’ve met Prince Bruce. Is he Black Mask?”

Harley frowned, thinking back to the hour or so she had spent with Bruce Wayne almost two years earlier at the Crowne Gala. 

“He’s known for being a spoiled asshole,” she said slowly. “But… he’s actually…” she glanced at the Joker. “Kind of a nice guy if you can get past that.”

“A nice guy?” His mouth twitched on one side, amused.

“I mean, he pretends to be an asshole, or at least I remember thinking that at the time,” she sighed. “I need to get in a room with him again. Look him in the eye…” Then a smirk slid onto her lips as she looked up at the Joker. “He’s dating Vicki Vale.”

The Joker snorted. “And how is dear _Vicki_ these days?”

“Fucking a billionaire, so she can’t be doing too bad,” Harley shrugged. “She’ll be able to tell us what his deal is, and maybe get me in a room with him.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “If there’s a story, Vicki can’t help herself. She has to know the truth. If her boyfriend is secretly running the city and wearing a mask, she’ll either already know or be desperate to find out the truth once we plant the idea in her head.”

“Relentless blonde who doesn’t stop when she gets an idea in her head, huh?” the Joker hummed, making Harley chuckle.

He rolled up to sit, grabbing his pants and pulling his cigarettes out of the back pocket. He popped one between his lips, then slipped something else out of the pack. 

“Found this taped to Marty’s front door while you were dealing with that asshole,” he explained drily, handing her a playing card. The King of Spades. And written on it in black magic marker...

_Noon tomorrow._

_I want you to come inside me <3 _

“Ed,” Harley sighed, making a face as she examined the card. “This is _so_ Ed.” 

“I hate this guy already,” the Joker muttered, lighting his cigarette and flopping back on the mattress. 

He exhaled a cloud of smoke in a vertical line as Harley examined the playing card. She twisted toward him so she was leaning on her hip, crossing one leg over the other and planting her foot on the Joker’s thigh above his knee. His hand curled around her ankle, and he ran his palm up and down her calf absentmindedly.

“He wants to meet us at noon tomorrow,” Harley mused. “Is there a street called Spade Street or something?”

“Mm,” the Joker hummed dubiously, taking a long drag off his cigarette, his hand still drifting up and down the back of her leg. “The card’s his whole… _copycat_ thing,” he grumbled, waving his hand dismissively. “But tellin’ us to come inside him...”

“Oh, shit,” Harley jumped up onto her elbow as the answer came to her. “Ed’s. That diner Downtown.”

The Joker prodded the scars inside his cheek with his tongue, considering this as he took another drag of his cigarette, then looped a lanky arm around Harley’s shoulders, yanking her closer so she was pressed against his side. She draped her arm over his chest, and their legs tangled together. 

“Out in the open, middle of the day,” he mused, exhaling a plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth while Harley traced his collarbones with her fingertips. “Could go either way.”

“First, we talk to Vicki,” Harley decided. “Find out if she can give us any leads on Wayne. Then… maybe we send Frost to do some recon at the diner.”

“Mm hm” the Joker agreed around his cigarette. “And uh, by _talk_ to Vicki, I assume you mean…”

“Kick her door down?” Harley suggested. She rolled on top of him, folding her arms on his chest. “She doesn’t like me anymore,” Harley pretended to pout. “I don’t need to play nice.”

“Since when do _you_ play nice?” J smirked at her. 

“I’m nice to you,” Harley pointed out coyly, threading her fingers into his hair and pushing it off his face.

“ _Just_ me,” he agreed smugly, reaching behind his head to crush his cigarette out against the wall and flick the end away. “Though you’re _very_ good at being naughty too,” he added, grabbing her ass and giving it a playful smack. “You _greedy_ slut,” he growled. 

Harley giggled at their bad shared joke. It was the product of phone sex gone wrong, their first attempt ending abruptly when Harley started laughing over that particular epithet. But by the second night in Peru, she’d been too horny to care what he said, she just wanted to hear his voice growling in her ear while she touched herself and pretended it was him. But _‘greedy slut’_ had officially been off the table ever since.

Suddenly, Harley felt like the last month had evaporated, and now they were right back where they had been before, picking up where they left off, bad jokes and all. 

“Stop trying to make greedy slut a thing,” Harley fought back a smile as he smirked up at her knowingly, his hand trailing up her spine. “It doesn’t turn me on.”

“No?” He raised an amused eyebrow. “What if I tell you I’m gonna fuck you til you’re _beggin’_ me to let you come again, hmm?” 

“Much better,” Harley grinned, stretching up to kiss him. She slipped her tongue in his mouth to stroke his, and she let her hand slide down his stomach to wrap around his cock. “I’m only nice to you so you’ll fuck me whenever I tell you to,” she murmured against his lips, stroking him firmly as his fingers wound into her hair, pulling it tight the way she liked. 

“Fair enough,” he purred, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Mm… and how _do_ you want me to fuck you, _Harley_.”

Her name on his lips made Harley shiver, making her feel all tingly and _good_. 

She sucked in a shaky breath as she pulled away from him, her blue eyes darting around his face quickly. Then she rolled off him onto her side so she was facing away from him. She tucked one knee up to her chest and braced herself on her elbow, then looked at him over her shoulder, smiling when she saw he was stroking himself and watching her with that dark, _hungry_ look she liked so much. 

“Like this,” she told him simply. 

Her heart started to pound when he shifted forward so he was behind her, his cock hard and nestled against the curve of her ass. Harley rocked her hips back when he slipped his hand between her legs from behind, touching her where she was still wet and creamy with their first round. He sighed happily as he lifted her leg higher, and she looked over her shoulder to watch as he guided his cock inside her again, squeezing her ass hard when he pulled her down on him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harley sighed indulgently, heat flooding her pelvis when he sank into her fully, the angle deep and satisfying. He fucked her slowly, his rough, steady strokes and roaming hands quickly turning Harley into a writhing mess of sensation.

Then he shifted closer so his chest was pressed against her back, lowering his mouth to her ear.

“Tell me what you _really_ want,” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Everything,” Harley moaned breathlessly, her head rolling back so she could look up at him. “Give me everything.”

* * *

Lucy was the last to leave the Sionis crypt. Her fellow members of the False Face Society filed out one by one, each of them taking the silver elevator back to the surface where they could remove their masks in relative privacy. Lucy waited her turn, not feeling especially motivated to run back to Gotham to take her place in the Iceberg Lounge’s birdcage. 

Somehow, someway, Roman had convinced their group that working with Harley Quinn was the best course of action if they were to expand beyond Gotham. Lucy wasn’t sure when the goalposts had been moved from Gotham to anywhere else, and she wasn’t sure how _she_ fit into that equation either. 

She stepped into the elevator when it returned, sighing as she tugged at the ribbons holding her mask in place when the doors _dinged!_ shut behind her. 

Anyone would think it strange to install a private elevator in your family crypt, but somehow it suited Roman. It occurred to Lucy that it only seemed to suit him because she was far down the rabbit hole—so submerged in the way Roman saw the world that she couldn’t see it for herself anymore. 

She shrugged out of her cloak and draped it over her arm as the elevator doors parted onto the crypt’s main floor, a small circular room ringed with tombs housing the bones of Roman’s family. Victor was sitting on one of those tombs, swinging his legs impatiently. 

“Finally,” he greeted Lucy with a smirk. “Boss wants a word with you, Luce.” 

Lucy would never have predicted that she’d prefer the old Victor—the creepy freak who used to make her skin crawl—to this version of him. But this version was loyal to Roman, posing as her bodyguard while reporting back to him… and Lucy couldn’t _stand_ him. 

“Fine,” she muttered, shuffling out of the mausoleum with Victor on her heels. 

She glanced over her shoulder as they trudged through the cemetery, her eyes lingering on Roman’s family crypt. It was newer than the other stately mausoleums dotted around the cemetery, maybe fifty years old instead of the one-hundred-plus years of the Waynes and Kanes. Lucy may have grown up poor, but she still knew the difference between ‘new’ and ‘old’ money. 

Early on, when she first met Roman and got to know him, he’d told her about his family’s tragic history. At one time, Lucy had empathy for him. Now she wondered if his family history and their ‘new money’ was the key to destroying him.

She passed beneath the cemetery’s gates, slowing when she saw a black Rolls Royce waiting with its engine running. She glanced at Victor, who shot her another smirk and gestured to the car. 

“After you,” he grinned, making Lucy scowl before she shoved her cloak and mask at him.

She ducked into the back of the Rolls to find Roman sitting on the other side of the backseat, his gloved hands folded in his lap, his mask still firmly in place. 

Victor hopped into the passenger seat, and the driver pulled onto the highway, heading back to Gotham. 

Lucy glanced sideways at Roman, her nerves fraying as she waited for him to do something. 

“Lucy,” He said softly, the voice modifier warping his voice. “You were very quiet tonight.”

Lucy licked her lips, struggling to find a response that would make Roman happy. 

“I’m—” she faltered. “I’m just kinda tired, boss.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately,” Black Mask observed mildly. “Perhaps you need an extended rest?”

“No, boss,” Lucy forced a smile despite the wave of anxiety sweeping over her. Over and over and over. “I just gotta lay off the cocktails,” she joked, hoping she didn’t sound as strained as she felt. 

Roman chuckled softly, then reached behind his head to unfasten his mask. He set it aside and ran a hand through his curly black hair, watching Lucy fidget uneasily. 

“You’re surprised the others agreed,” he noted. “You’re very good at reading people, Lucy. You just haven’t mastered the art of persuading them yet.”

“Uh, thanks, boss,” Lucy stammered.

“What do you think about Bruce Wayne?” Roman asked. 

“Bruce Wayne?” Lucy’s eyes widened. “The billionaire who burned his house down?”

“The one and only,” Roman replied, a little bitterly. 

“I dunno, I’ve never met him,” Lucy admitted, racking her brain for something helpful to contribute. “Mr Hill really wants his endorsement, right?” she tried. 

“Mm,” Roman shrugged mildly, his interest in the election already a thing of the past. “Bruce owns a controlling interest in Wayne Enterprises. He’s handicapping their board of directors, holding them back from true greatness.”

“Right,” Lucy agreed faintly, feeling out of her depth like she always did whenever Roman spoke about his ‘real’ job, which was so very different from the world she occupied. 

And yet the only reason Lucy even knew Roman was because he’d been hell-bent on dominating her world just as he intended to rule his own. Her world, he had explained once, with its murderers and thieves, its terrorists and gangsters, gave him power those in his world could never understand, let alone hope to harness.

She hadn’t understood why he’d offered to finance the club at the time, but she could see the strategy clear as day now. The Iceberg Lounge was Roman’s way into Gotham’s underbelly, Blue Orchid his convincing sales pitch for taking over, the Falcone brothers’ last names giving him legitimacy.

“Wayne Enterprises is one of the most influential companies in the world,” Roman added. “But Bruce is not up to the challenge.” He glanced sideways at Lucy. “Wayne Enterprises needs to be run by someone worthwhile.” 

“Someone like you, boss?” Lucy tried to joke, cracking an awkward smile. Roman laughed softly.

“I think you know me better than that, Lucy,” he smiled, tugging on the fingers of his gloves to pull them off. “John’s wanted this for a long time.”

“Yeah,” Lucy agreed warily. “So… you think Harley can help you with Wayne?”

“Harley will serve multiple purposes,” Roman explained, his smile softening to something almost wistful. “She’ll help me with this, as she’ll help me in all things.” 

“Okay, boss,” Lucy agreed, once again feeling this was a _terrible_ idea. She had only recently learned why the DA, the police commissioner, and now a judge needed to be taken care of, but she was convinced there was more to it than shutting up a few nosy public servants looking into Daggett Industries. Roman was _grooming_ Harley, testing her before he made his move. 

“Soon, she and I will be able to have honest conversations,” Roman continued, flashing Lucy a rare grin. “Won’t that be something? The fearless Harley Quinn advising me.”

“I’m guessing you’re gonna have a lot of persuading to do first, boss,” Lucy predicted uneasily. That was putting it lightly in her book.

“I know,” Roman sighed, smiling almost dreamily. “And I am so looking forward to it.”

* * *

 **A/N:** **I’m going to take a wild guess and say the scene break between smut and this scene with Roman & Lucy is a little bit jarring for some of you-- LOL!   
**

**I love this chapter. I love Ed, I love Black Mask and Harley, I love the smut, I love Harley & J’s post-coital work-chat in bed.**

**Next week has one of my favourite scenes in the whole fic.**

**Also, I’m pretty sure I’m taking some artistic license with the ‘Wayne Family Crypt’, and that TDK depicts them as being buried in normal graves, not a mausoleum. Hopefully you can live with that!**   
****

**Next: Harley & the Joker have a friendly chat with Vicki Vale before they meet up with the Riddler... **

**Please comment & review! They're what keep me writing!**


	12. Chapter 12

_Theme: L.A. Witch - 'Kill My Baby Tonight' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0BqVZqY6VtxJoeBfOQVCtD?si=pZqvP849R8ulGVzRhkVRSw)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/4JE00pIR3aA))_

* * *

The Pantomime

12.

* * *

Jonathan Crane had his limits. From the moment the Joker broke him out of Arkham, he promised himself he would break away as soon as humanly possible, and a month later he was still clinging to the Joker for protection. It was abundantly clear the clown and Harleen had reconciled, and that their interest in Blue Orchid had waned as they found other avenues to Black Mask's identity—avenues that did not require Crane's assistance.

It was up to Crane to find Black Mask himself, ideally before Harleen and the Joker did. And there was only one person who could possibly point him in the right direction. One person he had recently discovered worked at the Iceberg Lounge. A person you could say owed Crane a favor.

Victor Zsasz.

Without a car, Crane was forced to use public transport. He hadn't shaved in a week, and his beard had grown longer than he'd ever kept it before. It was itchy and annoying, but it made for an adequate disguise with the added bonus of making him look more masculine, he noted with a touch of vanity.

When he arrived Uptown, it took an hour to find the Iceberg Lounge from memory, having only been there once years earlier to meet Penguin about a money-laundering deal. There was a line of scantily-clad young people waiting to get in that stretched around the block. Some of them narrowed their eyes at Crane, not because they recognized him, but because he looked hopelessly out of place in his oxfords and too-large sweater vest.

The two bouncers guarding the club's backdoor exchanged an amused look when Crane approached them, a scowl fixed firmly on his face.

"I'm looking for Victor Zsasz," he announced coldly.

"You're looking for _Victor_?" one of the bouncers laughed.

"No one ever comes looking for Victor," the other one admitted, chuckling. "Sorry buddy, he's not here right now."

"Well..." Crane ground his teeth, recalibrating. "In that case, I need to speak to Lucy."

The bouncers laughed in his face, and Crane started to weigh up the merits of using his fear toxin on them when a black Rolls Royce pulled into the alley. The bouncers' laughter subsided, and they shared another amused look.

"Looks like you're getting lucky, pal," one of them observed as Victor Zsasz climbed out of the Rolls' passenger seat.

Crane squinted at Zsasz across the alley. He was still tall and imposing, but that unnerving glint of madness ever-present in his eyes was gone, replaced with an affable blankness that could have been a canvas for anything.

When Victor spotted Crane his bottom lip popped out, his eyebrows raising in an exaggerated expression of surprise.

"Huh," he nodded like he was impressed and offered Crane a wave. "Hey, Dr Crane."

Crane glanced at the bouncers, who were still watching and not taking it seriously. He scowled at them before stomping over to Zsasz, his shoulders hunched defensively.

"This is a surprise," Victor observed good-naturedly. "But not a bad one."

"Zsasz," Crane hissed. "You owe me."

"I do?" Victor narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

"I made sure you didn't go to Blackgate," Crane snapped. It was a weak argument but it was the only one he had.

"Uh-huh," Victor fought back a smirk, seeing right through him. "So, um, what brings you here tonight?"

"You work for Lucy," Crane said, his voice low. "I know Lucy works for Black Mask." Victor's eyebrows rose, impressed again. "I want to meet him," Crane added impatiently.

"You want to meet Black Mask?" Victor lowered his chin and twisted his head to the side like he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

"Yes," Crane sneered.

Victor took a step back and opened the backdoor of the Rolls Royce. He ducked his head in for a moment, exchanging a few quiet words with someone, then pulled back to flash Crane a smirk over his shoulder.

"Okay," he gestured to the car. "Go ahead."

* * *

Harley and the Joker were up and ready to go before dawn, dressed in inconspicuous summer wear that would allow them to roam around Gotham undeterred. Harley in cut off shorts and a cropped Hawaiin shirt, the Joker in blue jeans and an over washed gray tee shirt, one of Hill's MGGA hats covering his sandy hair.

They took a little red Nisson down to the University District and parked outside Vicki Vale's apartment. She lived on a street populated with bodegas and cafes, with apartments squashed between or over them.

"Mm... how you wanna play this?" the Joker squinted up at Vicki's building as Harley finished smoothing red greasepaint around her lips.

"I'm a known quantity," she said thoughtfully. "Vicki's scared of me... but she's _really_ scared of you."

The Joker shrugged modestly, then reached behind the driver's seat, retrieving a small ice pick for clearing ice from the windscreen.

"Why don't you... get creative while me and her are chattin', hmm?" He waggled his eyebrows, making Harley laugh as she took the ice pick from him.

The sun was just about up when they brazenly darted across the street in full warpaint. The entrance to Vicki's building was squeezed between a charity shop and a bodega that hadn't opened yet, and after looking around to make sure they didn't have any pesky witnesses, Harley used the ice pick to break the lock, leading them into a musty hallway with a narrow staircase.

Vicki lived on the third floor, though the apartments on the lower levels both looked empty. Harley pressed her ear against the thin wood of Vicki's front door; she could hear her shuffling around inside.

Harley stepped back and braced herself, her heart leaping happily to be working. Then she smashed the lock off with the icepick and kicked the door open, revealing a stunned Vicki Vale, sitting in front of her laptop at her kitchen table in her pajamas.

"Oh, _shit_!" Vicki gasped, jumping to her feet and staggering backward as they burst in.

"Hey, Vicki," Harley greeted her with a smirk, swinging the ice pick at a framed poster on the wall, smashing the glass. "You didn't return my calls," Harley pouted while the Joker loped up to Vicki.

"Wait, wait, _wait_!" Vicki chanted as the Joker swooped on top of her. "WAIT, _WAIT_!"

She shrieked when he grabbed a handful of her pale blonde hair and yanked her away from the sink, swinging her around and slamming her up against the fridge. Vicki made a horrible, strangled sound as the Joker produced a knife and held it up to her face, his paint-smeared fingers digging into her jaw to hold her head in place as he twirled it in front of her eyes.

"I wasn't going to write it!" she gasped. "I swear I wasn't going to write it!"

Harley was heading for a bookshelf packed with vinyl records, intent on destruction when she heard this. She swung around to squint at Vicki across the room, sensing they weren't currently on the same page. Vicki was gasping and trembling as she cowered away from the Joker but notably, did not start to cry.

"Weren't going to write _what_?" Harley asked, prowling back into the kitchen, her eyes narrowing.

"Daggett," Vicki panted, her voice shaking. "I wasn't going to write about it."

The Joker's head tipped to the side as he squinted down at Vicki while Harley did the same a few feet behind him.

"And _what_ ," J drawled, his voice a low _purr_ that made Vicki shudder. "Do _you_ know about John Daggett… _hmm_?"

"I know... I know Janice Porter and Mike Akins were investigating Daggett Shipping," Vicki admitted, squeezing her eyes shut. "And I know Judge Ciecco was issuing subpoenas to get a closer look at their books."

Harley ran her tongue over her bottom lip, tasting the red greasepaint as she slotted this information in place beside what she already knew.

"And what else do you think you know?" she demanded, watching Vicki breathe hard through her nose, her eyes still closed so she wouldn't have to look at the Joker.

"You made it look like you were repeating yourselves," she gasped. "When you were really taking out people dangerous to Daggett."

"Hmm," the Joker purred unhappily, obviously coming to the same conclusion that Harley had.

That they had played their parts well in Black Mask's little drama to keep up appearances for Daggett.

"Anything else, Vicki?" Harley snapped. "Now's the time to speak up."

Vicki took a few quick, deep breaths, then opened her eyes, meeting Harley's bravely.

"I know Daggett is advised by Hill Consulting, and you have some kind of relationship with Hamilton Hill," she said, a little bitterly. "Which makes me think he's part of this too."

The Joker chuckled throatily, enjoying her gumption.

"You're good, Vicki," Harley smirked affectionately, folding her arms and leaning against the sink. "You're _really_ good."

Vicki glared at her.

"How did you figure all this out?" Harley asked, narrowing her eyes, wondering if Vicki might know even _more_.

"After I saw you with Hill's campaign manager, I interviewed Hill for the magazine," Vicki said, looking moody instead of scared now. "It kind of snowballed from there."

"Uh-huh," Harley pushed away from the kitchen sink, coming up behind the Joker. She hooked her chin over his shoulder so Vicki had to look at both of them, a two-headed monster. "And what exactly was Janice Porter investigating?"

"Daggett Shipping's books were cooked," Vicki explained, eyeing Harley warily. "They were importing things from Tibet without declaring them."

"Tibet?" Harley laughed incredulously as the Joker craned his head over his shoulder to squint at her. "Daggett's bringing in the blue poppy!" she crowed.

"Blue poppy?" Vicki asked, her brow knitting together, her curiosity outpacing her fear of them.

"Aww, Vicki," the Joker sighed, pivoting back around to crowd her up against the fridge. "It's a _real_ long story," he purred. "One we were hoping _you_ could help us out with, ya know, cause you and Harley used to be _pals_."

"You want my _help_?" Vicki croaked, bewildered.

"Hang on," Harley interjected before the Joker could launch into his Bruce Wayne spiel.

The idea of getting Vicki to help of her own accord appealed to Harley vastly more than _forcing_ her into doing something. Vicki was strong-willed, and she had her convictions, but she was highly capable of delivering information.

Better to do this like friends.

Better to make her feel _good_ about helping.

Harley strode over to the sink and turned on the tap, squeezing a handful of dish soap into her palm to wash away what she could of her warpaint. Then she wiped her face on a tea towel, leaving plenty of white, black, and red behind, and smoothed her hair back off her face.

She turned back to Vicki, showing her the Harley she knew.

"Let her go," she told the Joker, who raised an eyebrow but did as she said, releasing Vicki so she could sag back against the fridge.

Harley yanked out a chair from the kitchen table and gestured for Vicki to take it, and after a moment's hesitation, she staggered across the kitchen on rubbery legs and fell into the chair. Harley sat across from her, fixing her with a grim look while the Joker washed his warpaint off, picking up on what they were doing.

"I do need your help," Harley told Vicki, watching her eyes widen with surprise. "And this time I think you'll find out my interests align with the rest of the city's."

"What are you talking about?" Vicki frowned, but Harley could see she already knew something was going on that didn't make sense.

"Someone is taking over every level of Gotham," Harley explained. "The mob, politics, big business, everything."

Vicki's eyes widened again. "Who?"

"He's called Black Mask," Harley said frankly while the Joker pulled up a third chair and sat at the table, yanking the MGGA hat back on. "He's trying to get me to work for him, and I'm trying to figure out who he is before... well, before he kills me, basically. Because there's no way in hell I'm working for him."

"Kills you?" Vicki looked between Harley and the Joker, her eyes lingering on the Joker's unpainted face.

"Like whatcha see?" he drawled, raising a lascivious eyebrow that made Vicki pivot back to Harley.

"How am I supposed to help you?"

"I have all these pieces," Harley explained. "And they refuse to come together. Except you just put some massive ones together for me, Vicki."

"Like... the blue poppy?" Vicki asked cautiously. "Will you tell me what that is?"

Harley exchanged a look with the Joker, who shrugged, not seeing the harm in filling her in if it would make her amenable.

"Have you heard of Blue Orchid?" Harley asked her.

"The party drug?" Vicki frowned, her eyes on the Joker as he shifted around to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

"Depends on what part of town you're in," he sneered, loosening a cigarette from the pack and popping it between his lips. He caught Vicki staring and casually offered her the pack, which got perhaps the most shocked look out of her yet.

"Blue Orchid is made from a blue poppy only grown in Tibet," Harley explained, stifling a smile as Vicki numbly accepted a cigarette and let the Joker light it for her, blinking hard as she tried to keep up. "It's also the main ingredient in Jonathan Crane's fear toxin."

Vicki exhaled a plume of smoke, her eyes wide. "Are you serious? That's what's in that stuff?"

"Yep," Harley nodded. "When the Batman cut off the drugs, they started making BO here at home with Daggett shipping in the poppies. It isn't illegal, but it keeps the mob running smoothly. It's how Black Mask keeps them under his thumb."

"Wait," Vicki braced her elbow on the table. "So when people say there's no mob, what they mean is the mob's gone straight?"

"Sure," Harley shot Vicki a dubious look. "If you call putting hits out on civil servants going straight."

"Jesus," Vicki ran a hand over her hair. "This person sounds really... efficient."

" _Effective_ is the word I'd use," Harley sneered.

"Okay," Vicki sighed out a cloud of smoke. "So, Hill, I can understand getting involved in this. He's a power-hungry prick."

The Joker snorted.

"But why would John Daggett get involved?" she looked at Harley. "He's a billionaire already."

Harley rocked back in her seat, her jaw twitching as she tried to decide how to explain Black Mask to Vicki.

"He's like a cult leader," she explained, rolling her shoulders back. "He convinces people that he's the only one who can get them what they want. He convinced John Daggett he can get him whatever it is he wants by working with him on this."

"Convinced him," Vicki said quietly, catching Harley's eye. "Or consulted him."

Harley's pulse bounced hard in her throat as she realized what Vicki was suggesting. She shifted forward, eager to hear what she had to say, sensing she already _knew_.

"There's a consultant who works for Hill," Vicki continued cautiously. "They say he's the reason John Daggett's a billionaire. He's the one who advised Hill to run for mayor. He works with dictators and terrorists, but everything he does is perfectly legal. And Hamilton Hill thinks of him as a son."

Harley's eyes widened, and suddenly, she felt so _incredibly_ stupid that she hadn't put it together sooner.

"Roman Sionis?" she demanded.

Vicki nodded mutely, and Harley swore under her breath.

Young, handsome, charismatic, wealthy, entitled, tricky, _weird—_ he was everything you'd expect Black Mask to be. Harley thought about that flutter of dark eyelashes, his height and build, and the cadence of his speech. All of it was so Goddamn _obvious._

How had she not seen this?

"Are you okay?" Vicki asked warily, watching Harley like one might watch a brewing storm.

But Harley waved her off, rubbing her forehead as she tried to pull together what this all meant.

It meant they _finally_ had something to work with.

"Listen," Vicki leaned toward Harley as if she'd forgotten who she was sitting across from. "This guy advises dictators. Dictators always go after the media, and Daggett has been making incredibly aggressive moves against Wayne Enterprises."

"What do you mean?" Harley squinted at her.

"Wayne owns GCN and the Globe," Vicki explained, her eyes lighting up. "If Sionis is advising Daggett to take on Wayne Enterprises, that could be why."

Harley ran her tongue over her teeth. Being taken to the Wayne Family Crypt felt slightly more… _personal_ than a corporate take over.

"Daggett's trying to take over Wayne Enterprises?" she asked warily, remembering their original purpose for being there, which Vicki had somehow eclipsed.

"And did, uh _, Brucey_ tell ya that?" the Joker asked slyly.

Vicki started looking nervous again, her shoulders tensing as she looked between Harley and the Joker like she was only remembering who they were now that her boyfriend's name was raised.

"Why did you come here?" she asked nervously.

Harley needed Vicki. She knew it then. She needed her to believe in her and work with her.

Harley scooted her chair closer to Vicki's, staring into her eyes, and conveying her desperation as best she possibly could.

"I met Black Mask… _Roman_ last night," she told Vicki, her expression grim. "He took me to the Wayne Family Crypt."

"What?" Vicki recoiled from Harley. " _What?_ "

"Yeah," Harley nodded. "Does that sound like he's only interested in taking over Wayne Enterprises for their _media_ empire?"

Vicki's mouth opened and closed and then opened again, apparently at a loss for words.

"You need to talk to Bruce," Harley told her, forcing Vicki to meet her eye. "You have to find out what he knows about Roman."

"I'm seeing him tomorrow night…" Vicki said slowly.

"No," Harley cut her off, shaking her head. "This morning, then come meet us to tell us what he says."

Vicki looked uncertain, and Harley could see she needed more of a reason to get on board. There was the obvious motivation that Harley would kill her if she didn't, but Harley didn't want to lay that one out on the table yet. She also had no desire to kill Vicki. In fact, Harley would actively keep her alive if it came down to it.

"Look," Harley sighed, trying another angle. "Talk to Bruce, and if he says anything you think I need to know, we'll meet in the park." She watched Vicki wrestle with being given so much control of the situation, including judging for herself whether Harley needed to know something, and willingly communicating with her. "Okay?" Harley asked.

"Okay," Vicki agreed.

Then she stood up and walked over to her TV unit, pulling open a drawer and pushing aside old cables and magazines before she retrieved the burner phone Harley had given her a year earlier.

She still had it.

Harley had to tamp down a triumphant grin, knowing Vicki would come through for her as she always did.

* * *

The Lake Restaurant in Robinson Park was fancier than Vicki expected it to be, but she wanted Bruce to meet her somewhere nice so she didn't feel like he was a source she was digging information out of like Jane at the dive bar.

Having Harley and the Joker turn up that morning had been flat out terrifying until Vicki realized what was happening. They were desperate. They were scared. Or at least as desperate and scared as they were capable of being. And the reasons they had for being nervous affected Vicki too.

And the story they told—it was _huge_. It was the scoop of a goddamn lifetime. It was so absorbing, it made it easier to talk to them once they decided to be civil.

As was always the case with Harley, Vicki struggled to reconcile the woman in front of her with the woman she knew Harley to be: the perpetrator of mass shootings, a terrorist. But once Harley washed off the clown paint and sat down, looking frustrated and nervous, and telling Vicki she needed her help, Vicki found herself wanting to help despite knowing it was wrong. Despite the Joker sitting there next to her like the devil himself, unpainted but still intensely unnerving and radiating pure malice.

That didn't mean Vicki had any intention of calling Harley, meeting Harley, or engaging her any further on the subject of Black Mask or Roman Sionis or whoever he was. Harley even told Vicki not to get in touch unless she found something she thought Harley needed to know. And Vicki couldn't think of _anything_ Bruce could reveal that could get her to voluntarily meet Harley again.

Still, Vicki begged Bruce to meet her for brunch, the urgency in Harley's eyes sticking with her, spurring her to find answers fast.

Vicki forced a smile when Bruce waved at her across the restaurant, a waiter leading him through a twist of tables toward her.

"Hey," she said, kissing him quickly, but before she could pull away, he covered her cheek with his hand and peered into her eyes, a line forming between his brows.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned. "You look shaken."

"It's work, I haven't slept yet," Vicki lied, shrugging him off and sitting down, giving him no choice but to sit across from her, his frown firmly in place.

"I didn't realize photoshopping Ivania Dumas was the kind of thing to keep you up at night," Bruce attempted to joke, but it fell flat.

"It's not," Vicki agreed. "This is about the Daggett-Hill story."

"Oh," Bruce's eyebrows rose.

"And it's a lot bigger, a lot more complicated than I thought it was," Vicki admitted. "I'm still trying to piece things together, but…" she looked up at him, seeing how concerned he was for her, and plowed ahead. "I need you to answer some questions for me, Bruce."

"You need _me_ to answer some questions?" Bruce's eyes widened.

"I need you to tell me about Roman Sionis," Vicki explained, watching surprise pass over his face. "Is there a reason why he would be interested in your family's company?"

"Uh," Bruce laughed awkwardly, looking bemused. "I haven't seen Roman in years, Vicki."

Vicki didn't say anything. She waited for Bruce to tell her, not wanting to say out loud that she knew he was hiding something.

"Alright," Bruce nodded reluctantly, sitting back in his chair. "Roman's family owned a company that made plastics called Janus Chemical. They went bankrupt during the depression. Wayne Enterprises bought it and liquidated it."

Vicki nodded for him to continue, listening closely.

"The Sionis family had plenty of money, but Roman's father was…" Bruce hesitated, pressing his lips together. "Resentful is what I was told. Resentful that Wayne destroyed his family's company."

He hesitated again.

"And," Vicki pressed.

"And," Bruce sighed, staring at his water glass. "And Roman's father spent a decade drinking and hating my parents for something that had nothing to do with them, and ultimately he killed himself driving drunk." Bruce looked conflicted as he met Vicki's eye. "We were eleven. Roman's mother committed suicide two years later."

Vicki's eyes widened.

"Does he… blame you?" she asked.

"I have no idea," Bruce shrugged helplessly. "My parents died when I was twelve and Alfred homeschooled me from then on. I've seen Roman maybe six or seven times in the twenty-plus years since then."

Vicki drummed her fingers on the white table cloth, wishing she had a cigarette to help her think.

"Vicki, what's this all about?" Bruce frowned. "Why are you investigating Roman?"

"I'm not," she lied. "I'm just trying to understand him as part of a larger puzzle."

"Well," Bruce picked up her hand off the table. "He'll be at the fundraiser tomorrow night if you want to meet him? Pick his brains?" he offered her a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Or interrogate him?"

"He will?" Vicki asked warily, remembering what Harley said about Roman taking her to the Wayne Family Crypt. It felt _dangerous_ to have him in the manor.

"Yeah, I'll introduce you," Bruce offered her a toothy smile. "You'll see he's a nice enough guy. Intense job, but nice enough."

"Okay," Vicki agreed weakly.

"You've got a little something," Bruce gestured to her jaw, smiling.

Vicki picked up her napkin and rubbed her jaw, then looked down to see a smear of red paint. Leftover from the Joker's fingers.

"Lipstick," she lied, giving Bruce a tight smile.

* * *

The Joker fished out a pair of knock off Ray-Ban sunglasses from the Nisson's glove box, popping them on and adjusting the MGGA hat on his greasy hair.

"You look like a republican serial killer," Harley told him affectionately. They were waiting in the car outside Ed's, giving Frost a chance to scout it before they went in themselves.

" _Shucks_ ," the Joker drawled, shooting her a smirk just as Frost trundled out of the chrome diner, flashing them a thumbs up on his way past.

"Here we go," Harley murmured.

Considering how successful round one had gone with Vicki, she wasn't overly hopeful that Ed would provide anything especially useful. Not least because he was an irritating little pest always hovering on the peripheral, demanding attention for himself, and he had been right about Harley meaning 'beat up, torture, and kill' when she said 'chat.'

She spotted his strawberry blonde hair on the other side of the diner, which was mostly empty before the lunchtime rush. Harley took the Joker's hand and led him toward Ed, her senses heightened in case this was another instance of Ed calling them out in public.

Ed was as flamboyantly dressed as he usually was, apparently not understanding this meeting was supposed to be a discrete one. He wore a dark green wife beater tucked into mom jeans and a pair of bulky sandals covered in the word _PRADA_ , which Harley would have described as "fashiony" for lack of a better word. She noticed his toenails were manicured and painted a sparkly baby blue.

Ed's eyes widened when they stopped beside him, eyeing him warily.

"Oh my god," he hissed, delighted. "Look at you!"

Harley and the Joker exchanged a look, then slid into the booth and took off their sunglasses. They folded their arms on the chrome tabletop and stared at Ed while he bit his bottom lip and wiggled his shoulders.

"I am _loving_ this undercover look," he gushed, waving a hand at them. "It's so dirty but _sexy,_ you know? Like—"

The Joker grabbed Ed's flailing wrist out of the air, yanking him forward so he could get a grip on the back of his neck. He slammed Ed's face down on the chrome tabletop, pinning him there and making the condiments on the table rattle.

"Hey!" Ed squealed.

Harley flicked open a switchblade and balanced the point on the table in front of Ed's eyeball.

"Listen, Ed," she said softly. "We get that you think we won't kill you in public in the middle of the day like this, but unfortunately… you're _wrong_ about that."

"Hey, I just wanna talk," Ed whined. "Come on, I know you're looking for Black Mask."

Harley and the Joker exchanged another look. The Joker made a pained face like he couldn't bear to deal with Ed, but Harley shook her head, insisting they hear him out, and the Joker released him with an unhappy hum.

"Alright," Harley folded her arms again and watched Ed pout performatively and rub the back of his neck. "What do you know about Black Mask?"

"Well," Ed started with a sigh, folding his pale, well-defined arms on the table like he was settling in for a story. "I guess it all started with Holiday."

"It all started with Holiday?" Harley asked dubiously.

"Yes, Harley, it did," Ed grinned. "So, you _could_ say I was a fan of his work, but then he just stops, right? Nothing on New Year, nothing on Valentine's Day. So I thought, hey! _What_ an opportunity and—"

"We aren't here for your _origin_ story, _Ed_ ," Harley snapped. "If you know something, now is the time to tell us."

"Fine, fine, _jeez_ ," Ed huffed, rolling his eyes and heaving a put upon sigh. "So, around the same time that I killed those dirty cops, me and Alberto were having a little, mmm, _fling_ , you could say."

"You had a _fling_ with Alberto Falcone?" Harley lifted an eyebrow and Ed nodded eagerly.

"Yeah, and let me tell you," Ed shot Harley a knowing look. "That guy is a _freak_ between the sheets. I mean, you could probably guess that looking at him. Anyway, he figured me out. I guess I wasn't _great_ at covering my tracks or whatever." He fluttered his hand and rolled his eyes. "And I figured out he was Holiday."

" _What_?" Harley hissed, her eyes widening. "Alberto Falcone is Holiday?"

The Joker hummed low in his throat while Ed nodded eagerly, beaming under their attention.

"Oh, _yes_ ," he sang, obviously pleased with himself. "So, anyway, Alberto introduces me to Black Mask," Ed continued gamely. "And he says he wants me to work for him. He wants me to ya know, cause distractions, cause a little chaos, get the papers talking, and get the Batman and Black Canary nervous... and he would pay me for it, give me men and guns and whatever I needed."

Harley felt a profound sense of disappointment sweep over her then, followed swiftly by disgust. The Riddler, the man who was supposed to be a worthy adversary, the villain they had returned to Gotham for, was nothing but a paid mob shill.

"Oh don't look at me like that," Ed begged, his eyes widening like he was about to cry. "I mean, you _both_ worked for the mob and screwed them over." He looked to the Joker, eyes pleading. "That was always my plan, you know? Except I _really_ needed the money."

"It's _always_ about the _money_ ," the Joker sneered.

"Look, some of us have to work for a living," Ed snapped, his eyes narrowing as he waved a long finger between them. "And what do you think I'm doing now? If BM knew I was telling you this, he'd _flay_ me. I've seen him do it. He's a _big_ fan of flaying."

"So this is you screwing over Black Mask," Harley raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "By snitching to us?"

"God, you're so _judgy_ ," Ed rolled his eyes then settled forward, his hazel eyes focusing on her. "This isn't snitching, _Harley_ , it's switching sides."

Harley and the Joker exchanged a look, neither of them sure if they would be better or worse off with the Riddler on their 'side'.

"Why are you switching sides, Ed?" Harley asked him point blank. "We aren't going to pay you."

"Because I want to team _up_ with you! I am _so_ bored with BM and his _moody_ vibe," Ed huffed unhappily, his bottom lip sticking out. "Taking over the city all quietly like this? _So_ _boring_. You guys are like technicolor, you know? You're _vibrant_ and _real_ and _exciting_. And BM's just black and gray, and sometimes like a really dark navy blue, but never even with a pinstripe." He sighed miserably, throwing his hands up. "I mean, how can someone so rich and powerful and dangerous be this _boring_? I don't get it."

"Ed," Harley narrowed her eyes. "Do you find avoiding boredom is the primary motivator in your decision making?"

"Yes, _yes,_ " he gasped, falling forward like he was dying. "Psychoanalyse me, Harley, I'm _begging_ you. I think I'm a high functioning sociopath, but I also think like, _maybe_ some OCD and probably some ADHD too... they gave me pills when I was a kid but—"

"Those are just labels," Harley interrupted him, seeing another tangent was imminent. "All that matters is the next move you make."

"I _told_ you, I want to team up to take down Black Mask," Ed whined, looking pained. Then his eyes lit up like he'd thought of something. "Oh my god, are you still friends with Poison Ivy? Are you? Can you imagine if we all teamed up? Oh my god, talk about squad goals!" His mouth fell open in a melodramatic gasp. "Harley, we'd be the _Squad_. I can be Taylor and you can be Karlie!"

Harley had no idea what he was talking about, and when she glanced at the Joker he was squinting at Ed like he was trying to decide if Ed was insane. She decided to let that one go.

"What do you know about... Poison Ivy," she asked haltingly, feeling stupid calling Pam by the moniker she'd been gifted by the Lucky Hand.

"That she's like, this wrathful, amazing, powerful _goddess_ who sucks men's brains out and turns them into _slaves_ ," Ed grinned, wiggling his shoulders. "That's what some of the thugs left over from the Chinese gangs said anyway."

"Red sure is somethin'," the Joker muttered, and Harley shot him a glare for even mentioning Pam.

"Redheads, amiright," Ed smirked at the Joker, suddenly playing a swaggery toxic male instead of the enthusiastic camp performance he'd been giving so far.

It made Harley wonder if it was _all_ a performance.

"Okay, Ed," Harley settled forward, trying to get him back on track. "Do you know who Black Mask really is?"

"Well, _no_ , but no one does," he rolled his eyes until he caught Harley looking at him. "Wait… do _you guys_ know who he is?"

"It's something we're looking into," Harley replied evasively. "So, if you don't know who he is, how are you going to help us take him down?"

"He _talks_ to me, Harley," Ed explained with a sanguine smile. "I _understand_ him."

"You _understand_ him?" Harley lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeah, for example," Ed leaned forward, smirking. "I know he's _really_ interested in you."

"In me?" Harley felt an annoying spell of uneasiness roll through her. "What did he say?"

"It's not so much what he said," Ed replied coyly. "As _how_ he said it. Like he couldn't _not_ ask me about you once he knew I knew you."

Harley frowned, unsure what to make of this.

"He _liiiiiiiikes_ you," Ed sang, biting his bottom lip and waggling his eyebrows at her.

"He wants me to _work_ for him," Harley countered, though she felt like she was pushing back unnecessarily.

"Who wouldn't," Ed agreed. "I'm just saying, BM is usually chill about everything, but he was _very_ unchill when he asked about you."

Harley thought about the exchange from the night before. The way he said he wanted to know her secrets and asked her if she wanted to be needed. And the way his hand had _hovered_ like he wanted to touch her.

She felt the Joker's hand slip onto her leg under the table, his fingers digging into her inner thigh, a comforting reminder that she was _his_.

"Alright, _Ed_ ," the Joker jumped in suddenly, bracing an elbow on the table and leaning forward. "Here's the thing. You haven't told us… _anything_ useful. Not a fuckin' _thing_ , pal. So I wanna know… what _you're_ gonna do to help us take down your buddy Black Mask. _Huh_?"

Ed's eyes darted between them nervously, the Joker apparently doing more to reign him in than Harley was capable of. It was _profoundly_ satisfying to see him get twitchy.

"Because I gotta say, all this… _bullshit_ ," the Joker waved his hand dismissively, indicating he thought everything about Ed was bullshit. "My girl and I aren't fuckin' interested, _kiddo_."

"Well, I'm a really good shot," Ed said defensively. "You may have noticed I've carried out _three_ heists in _three_ weeks. I mean, you must be impressed right?"

When they just stared at him, very much unimpressed, he sputtered indignantly.

"I can be your man on the inside," he tried again, raising his chin. "BM randomly texts me with jobs or if he wants to meet up. Maybe we... swap numbers and I let you know when I see him... or if I think of anything else."

Harley and the Joker exchanged a look. It could go either way, they agreed. In the end, the Joker pulled out a burner and fixed Ed with an expectant look, his thumb hovering over the keys as he squeezed Harley's leg beneath the table.

Ed recited his number and the Joker gave him a missed call so they were square. Then without a word of farewell, the Joker stood and stepped out of the booth, Harley sliding out after him while Ed watched, his eyes narrowing.

"So, you call her your _girl_ , huh?" he smirked, almost flirtatiously, but a little bit _mean_ too. "That's so cute and... unexpected. But I guess that's the point right? It's so _not_ you that it's _you_." He looked at Harley. "What do you call him? Honey-bunny? Baby? _Puddin'_?"

Harley shot Ed a withering look as the Joker threw an arm over her shoulders, pulling her into his side and guiding her out of the diner, well aware that Ed was staring at them. Harley figured it was to emphasize to Ed that he was up against both of them.

"C'mon, Puddin'," the Joker muttered into her hair, making Harley snort quietly.

When they were back in the car, Harley's phone beeped with a message from Vicki. She had information, and wanted to meet.

* * *

Vicki lowered herself onto the park bench where she first met Harley Quinn a year earlier, sighing through her teeth. The rest of brunch with Bruce had been tense, and she'd blamed it on not getting enough sleep, though it was actually due to worrying for him. Worrying that he could have a psychopath with a dynastic personal vendetta against him in his home the very next evening. Because if someone was going to wear a mask and take over the city and try to employ Harley Quinn, that person had to be a psychopath, right?

If Roman—Black Mask—had already proven himself capable of doing what Harley described, who was to say he wasn't capable of destroying Wayne Enterprises, and even hurting Bruce?

Vicki had not intended to call Harley, but after two hours sitting at her desk contemplating the alternative—calling Detective Montoya—she realized she didn't have a choice. Montoya would be able to look into the business at City Hall, and maybe even look into the business with the blue poppy, but ultimately, nothing would come of it. The idea of sicking Montoya on Roman Sionis was laughable—she wouldn't be able to get anything done, not with her badge and the rules she had to follow.

Harley, on the other hand.

Harley could actually _do_ something.

Vicki wasn't sure what she wanted Harley to do; she just knew Harley would be able to do it.

So now Vicki was sitting on a park bench waiting, still not sure exactly what she was doin, even when Harley appeared without the Joker. She slid onto the park bench beside Vicki, her eyes covered by a pair of dark sunglasses, her shoulders tense.

"So?" Harley asked, sounding strained. "What did he say?"

Vicki took a deep breath to prepare herself, then repeated everything Bruce told her about Roman Sionis's family, and by the time she'd finished Harley was nodding knowingly.

"Boy grows up with a drunk, resentful father who blames all their problems on the Wayne family," she said in a sing-song voice. "Boy's parents kill themselves because of those problems, boy ostensibly blames the Waynes for their deaths."

Harley turned to Vicki, her expression gloomy.

"Boy suffering with PTSD is raised in a boarding school without any kind of emotional support, where he and his wealthy, entitled peers are taught they're the chosen ones." She shook her head. "It's like the perfect cocktail for the most sadistic kind of psychopath."

"Shit," Vicki sighed. "Do you think he wants to hurt Bruce?"

"My guess?" Harley shot Vicki a wary look. "Now that he has the power to do it, he wants to destroy him."

Vicki ran her tongue over her teeth a few times, struggling with what she ultimately told Harley next.

"There's a Wayne Foundation fundraiser tomorrow night," she said, glancing sideways at Harley. "Bruce says Roman will be there. He's going to introduce me to him."

"Can you get me in?" Harley demanded, immediately interested.

"Why, what will you do?" Vicki asked warily.

"Kidnap him," Harley said simply, and when Vicki's eyes widened, she added. "Quietly. Ish."

"And then what?" Vicki made a face. "Kill him?"

"No, there's still a lot we need to learn from him," Harley mused, and when she saw Vicki's pained face, she added, "Including what he's planning to do to Bruce."

Vicki knew Harley was manipulating her, but that didn't make her any less right.

However, Vicki wasn't quite ready to be part of a kidnapping plot yet.

She stared at the yellow grass beneath her feet, trying to find a solution.

"Roman is a ghost. He's impossible to find," Harley continued. "This is a golden opportunity for us to _expose_ him. The court of public opinion is more vicious than the court of law. You know we can do it, Vicki."

Vicki sighed and closed her eyes, struggling with how close she was to saying yes.

"Vicki, look at me," Harley insisted.

After a beat, Vicki met Harley's eye, seeing the desperation there.

"He's had people following me for weeks," Harley said, looking strained. "Everywhere I go, there's a BMW with two men inside. They don't even try to hide the fact that they're following me. It's like they feel _entitled_ to it, and…." Harley swallowed thickly, blinking hard. "And he _wants_ something from me. Something more than just work."

"What do you mean?" Vicki frowned, watching Harley roll her shoulders back like she felt uncomfortable. "What else does he want?"

"He said he wants me to…" Harley closed her eyes, looking genuinely upset. " _Submit_."

" _Submit_?" Vicki's eyes widened, the word sending something horrified skittering through her.

"I have to stop him," Harley continued, her jaw clenching before she met Vicki's eye again. "I'll protect Bruce for you, I promise."

When Vicki still didn't say anything, Harley tried again.

"Listen, I've met Bruce before," she coaxed. "When I was still working at Arkham. I know he's a good guy and just pretends to be an asshole, I'm guessing he has to do the whole high society thing because of his last name, but he hates it. He doesn't deserve this."

Vicki sighed heavily, the idea that she was relying on Harley Quinn to protect her billionaire boyfriend too ridiculous to consider in any rational sense.

But she also believed Harley.

And Vicki knew that if anyone could expose Roman, it was Harley Quinn and the Joker.

Timely as always, the Joker strolled up to them then, looking exceedingly ordinary if not a little _gritty_ in sunglasses and jeans, a red MGGA hat covering his wild hair. He flicked the butt of his cigarette away and offered Harley his hand when he stopped beside their bench, and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet as she caught Vicki's eye again.

"Okay, I'll get you in," Vicki agreed, and Harley nodded solemnly.

Vicki watched them walk away, surprised to see the Joker throw an arm over Harley's shoulders and tug her into his side. She fell against him, her arms twining around his waist as they speed-walked across the park, both of them obviously eager to get out of there.

* * *

Harley felt drained after all they'd learned that day. She usually enjoyed gathering information and planning jobs, but she couldn't shake the uneasy, queasy feeling that had been twisting her in knots for days—knots that had grown excruciatingly tight since her trip to the Wayne Family Crypt **.**

It seemed Vicki headed straight for the Palisades after their conversation because only an hour later, she was texting Harley details of the fundraiser's prospective security set up. Twenty armed guards milling around the house itself. Another twenty on the property, keeping an eye on things further afield.

They were going to need a distraction.

Harley had _one_ good idea for a last-minute distraction. It was risky, and it was a thread she wasn't quite sure she wanted to pull yet. Hell, it was a thread she wasn't sure she didn't want to murder and throw in the East River.

She shared her idea with the Joker as he parked the little red Nisson outside the public housing building in Burnley Arms, and he sighed in loud, dramatic exasperation as he pulled the key out of the ignition.

"Ed's unbearable, but he's a good play," Harley insisted, reassuring herself more than him. "He knows Black Mask, and he can keep up with us."

"He outta create a nice little distraction for the _pigs_ when we're finished," the Joker pointed out slyly.

"Two birds, one stone," Harley agreed, slipping out of the car into the summer evening sun.

The Joker trailed behind her as they wound their way through the twisting brick walls to their safe house on the ground floor. Harley pulled the loose brick out of the wall beside the front door to retrieve the key and let them into the apartment, which was unbearably humid, making her skin feel tacky beneath her clothes.

She folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, still feeling unsettled while the Joker pushed the front door shut. He caught her eye, reading the apprehension on her face as he strolled up to her, one eyebrow raised.

"So we're workin' with the _Riddler_ ," he widened his eyes conspiringly. "Aka… _Ed._ "

"Aka Ed," Harley agreed moodily, making the Joker chuckle.

"Aw," he purred, his tongue snaking over his bottom lip. He cocked his head to the side and squinted down at her. "You worried you're gonna have to _babysit_?"

That made Harley crack a smile. She pushed away from the counter and reached up to tug the red MGGA hat off his head, flashing him a grin as she tossed it over her shoulder. He smirked back at her, reaching up to smooth her hair off her face before he threaded his fingers into it while she slipped her hands beneath the soft jersey of his t-shirt.

His skin was hot, sticky like hers, and Harley felt more than heard him growl quietly as she raked her nails down his chest. He kissed her, making Harley sigh, her eyes falling shut as he backed her up against the kitchen counter, and pinned her there, _distracting_ her, she realized.

It worked. Harley deepened the kiss eagerly, her arms looping around his neck as she pressed her body up against the length of his, trying to get closer. So close maybe she could just push inside him and _fuse_ with him.

The Joker pulled back to look down at her, his eyes narrowing curiously for a moment before he ducked down and hoisted her up by her waist, throwing her over his shoulder.

Harley laughed reluctantly when she landed with an 'oof'. He tugged his tee-shirt off over his head while Harley rid herself of her top, tossing it aside as she scooted to the edge of the bed. He started unfastening his jeans, but Harley pushed his hands away and took over, looking up at him as she tugged his zipper down, then gave his pants an impatient yank to free him.

He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth when she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him as she leaned forward to roll her tongue around the head of his cock lazily, and when he sighed roughly Harley felt her pulse leap between her legs.

He pushed her away before she could draw him between her lips, making her sway back as he dropped to his knees in front of her. Harley leaned back on her hands, lifting her hips so he could unbutton her shorts and tug them off her, leaving her naked and arched halfway off the bed. She caught his eye as his palm trailed down her stomach, the heel of his hand pressing on her abdomen before drifting lower to part her thighs. Her head fell back when he ran his thumb over her, a shaky sigh slipping past her lips as he increased the pressure of his thumb a wonderful fraction.

She saw his jaw tense because nothing turned the Joker on like feeling how much she wanted him, and Harley _always_ wanted him. He met her eye again, and she smirked faintly, pulling his hand away and tugging him onto the bed beside her.

She helped him kick off his pants and waited for him to brace himself on his elbows, settling in to watch before she started teasing him, opening her mouth to run the flat of her tongue up the side of his cock, then sucking him between her lips before she released him with a wet pop. She looked up to see he was staring at her intently like he was watching something _fascinating_.

Harley knew exactly how he liked to watch her suck his cock. He liked it slow, and wet, and remarkably, he liked it _pretty_ too. So she took her time, pulling quiet, throaty sounds out of him, each one making a new thread of desire unspool inside her.

He exhaled gruffly when he started getting close, his fingers sinking into her hair to guide her, her hand and mouth working faster in tandem as she listened to his breathing grow shallow.

His grip on her hair tightened, pulling hard enough to make her scalp sting, and Harley felt his body tense beneath her. She took as much of him into her mouth as she could, sheathing him before he came, a hot spurt in the back of her throat that she swallowed with a quiet hum. Then she slowly released him, lifting her head to look at him, and licking her lips.

He smirked at her, looking a little sleepy, and very happy as he sat up and flipped her onto her back in one fluid motion. He knelt between her legs, his hand sliding down her body to touch her where she wanted him most.

"Oh, you really _do_ love sucking my cock, dontcha," he purred, stroking her, feeling how wet she was.

"Yes," Harley groaned weakly, her eyes closing when his finger drifted over her clit.

"And what do _you_ want, hmm?" he asked, his voice low and rattly. " _Harley_?"

"Fuck me," she breathed immediately, but he hummed dubiously and lowered his mouth to her breasts, his tongue circling one taut nipple before he looked up at her again.

"We got _lots_ of time to kill, Harl," he reminded her. He slid a long finger inside her, making her squirm in pleasure as his mouth moved down her ribs and over a knotted scar where she'd been stabbed a couple of years earlier, licking it with a serpentine flick of his tongue. "Try again," he suggested drily.

Harley panted weakly, too turned on to think straight or be creative as he slowly moved his finger in and out of her body, making her tremble.

" _Oh_ ," she whispered.

So of course, he pulled his hand away.

He pressed his finger against her lips instead, and Harley sucked it into her mouth eagerly, tasting herself as he latched onto her breasts again, pulling on them more aggressively until they were sore and sensitive, each brush of his tongue sending a flash of pleasure zipping through her.

Then his hands curled around her waist again, pushing her up the bed so he could shift lower, spreading her legs wider. Harley's fingers tangled into his hair, her heart pounding against her ribs as he stroked her lightly with his tongue, pulling a throaty moan out of her as heat flooded her body.

It was no secret they both had certain sadistic impulses, and predictably those impulses frequently made their way into the bedroom. He would take his time getting her to the precipice, and once he got her there, he would hold back her release until she broke down and begged him to push her over the edge. And if he were in an especially _playful_ mood, even that wouldn't be enough for him to give in and let her cum.

Harley had her own ideas about pleasure and submission, and where being forced to beg for an orgasm fell on that spectrum. It was an exercise in patience, not punishment or humiliation. She was well aware of how much the Joker liked to see her _squirm_ , and she shared the sentiment, though he appeared to have infinite patience when it came to being denied relief.

Still, Harley had managed to get him there a few times, and she could happily say there was nothing, _nothing_ as good as making the Joker beg.

Harley lost track of time, languishing in the swells of pleasure swimming through her as he edged her toward climax then took it away at the last moment. Again and again, he built her up to a blinding fever pitch until she was swollen and over-stimulated, and she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Make me come," she breathed, her hands twined into his hair, finally giving him what he'd been waiting for, and what she'd been stubbornly resisting. " _Please_."

He blew on her pussy, drawing a shuddering breath out of her.

"I _know_ you can beg better than that," the Joker growled.

 _"Please_ ," Harley whined, her hands tightening to shaking fists in his hair. "Oh, _fuck_ , J, _please…_ "

That seemed to be enough for him this time. He plunged two fingers inside her, stroking her as he lapped at her clit, making her writhe beneath him. Lusty threads of pleasure raced around her abdomen, making her dizzy as his fingers dug into her hip to hold her in down.

Harley came with a loud, breathless cry, pulling his hair hard as her feet flexed against the mattress. He kept touching her, winding down until the final aftershocks of pleasure faded from her body, and only then did he roll sideways to lay beside her, listening to her breathing raggedly.

With her brain all blissful and relaxed, Harley remembered a conversation they'd had once about how he'd like to see her go out—sharks, he'd said—and she found herself giggling stupidly, her eyes closing as a grin spread across her face.

"That good, huh?" He hummed, sounding amused.

"I was just thinking," she sighed dreamily. "You'd love to die with your face between my legs."

He snorted, and Harley felt his body shake beside her as he chuckled throatily, and even though she couldn't see his face, she knew his eyes would be crinkling up at the corners.

But as the euphoria started to wear off, her mind drifted to darker places. What _would_ it take to get her to kill the Joker? And that made her wonder what Roman actually thought it would take, and what he was _capable_ of making her do.

That was the moment when Harley realized she would sooner die than let the Joker go. Because she didn't _want_ to live without him anymore. He was an extension of her, a reflection of her, he helped _define_ her, and leaning into those strong, _confident_ , intoxicating feelings... _that_ was _freedom_.

The Joker's hand snaked up her leg, his fingers trailing over the tendon at her inner thigh, making a smile slip onto Harley's lips. She rolled her head to the side to see he was already hard again, his cock thick and bobbing against his stomach.

She started to reach for him when he sat up and slid to the edge of the bed, grabbing her by the ankle to drag her off too.

"C'mere," he said, tugging her roughly toward him, making her laugh.

Harley stood and lowered herself into his lap so her back was pressed against his chest, her tiptoes braced against the floor. Her stomach fluttered wildly as he positioned himself beneath her, his hand settling on her waist to guide her as she sank down onto him. She gasped weakly once he was buried inside her—it was deeper than she'd expected, making her back arch and her eyes roll, her body rippling deliciously around his length.

Harley murmured something nonsensical as her head fell back against the Joker's shoulder, and she started rocking against him slowly, her core buzzing and electrified, her pussy wet and tingling.

"Oh, you _like_ that, _don't_ you," he growled against her neck, rubbing his nose into her skin, his grip on her waist almost painful as he pulled her down on him firmly.

" _Yes_ ," Harley gasped, rolling her hips a little faster. "Talk to me," she begged.

She felt the Joker's nose slide up the side of her neck so his mouth was against her ear, and Harley was close enough to hear him swallow as he tried to pull himself together to do as she asked.

"You," he started, his voice low and raspy, a little unhinged. "Always feel so… _good_ ," he purred, thrusting up to hit her deeper, making her whine. "Mmm… and your _perfect..._ little pussy is always so _wet_ for me." He pressed his mouth against her ear, his breath hot on her skin, making her shiver. " _You're_ gonna forget your _name_ before I'm finished fucking you tonight… _Harley Quinn_."

Harley groaned weakly, feeling dizzy with desire as her body reacted powerfully to his voice.

 _"I_ bet… you want me to make you _beg_ again, _don't_ you," he huffed against her cheek, and when she didn't answer he pinched one of her sensitive nipples impatiently, sending a flash of pleasure straight to her core. " _Don't_ you, Harl."

"Yes," she panted, pleasure racing through her entire body. "Harder," she demanded breathlessly. _"Harder."_

He stood up suddenly, lifting her off him and pushing her down on the bed. Harley braced her knees on the edge of the mattress, her heart slamming against her breastbone and her toes curling as he stood behind her. His hands wrapped around her hips before he plunged into her again, making her bury her face in the bedding as a wave of pleasure crashed over her.

He fucked her deep and slow, but never gently. His fingers dug into her hipbones, using them for leverage to slam into her, growling more lusty promises that nearly did make Harley forget her name. And he did make her beg, as promised, never going fast enough to give her what she needed to come apart, but building a deeper pleasure that left her body throbbing as she pleaded with him, loudly, joyfully, _desperately_.

He wrapped her hair around his hand and yanked her head back, forcing her back to arch as he drove into her, relentless. Harley swooned weakly, her fingers twisting into the sheet as she became overwhelmed by sensation, every nerve in her body sparking and crackling. Then a deep, rolling pleasure spread from her core throughout her whole body, building and building until she was trembling and gasping when it finally broke in an intense orgasm that swept her away from reality in an electrical storm of lust and pleasure.

Harley wasn't quite back to her body yet when the Joker pulled out of her and promptly flopped on the bed beside her, breathing raggedly. Harley collapsed on her side, feeling equally drained and sleepy.

"Ah... _fuck_ ," J sighed roughly, pulling himself up to shuffle through his jeans for cigarettes and a lighter. Harley didn't say anything as he lit a smoke, letting her eyelids droop.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and raked his hair off his face, then clapped a hand down on her ass, which Harley was sure had picked up some bruises. And she didn't bruise easily.

"Hmm," he growled thoughtfully then slapped her ass without much effort, and Harley turned a weak glare at him. "What?" he asked, playing innocent. "Everyone already thinks you let me tie you up and _spank_ you."

"Are you trying to be subtle and hint at something?" Harley mumbled, fighting back a sleepy smirk.

 _"Subtle_ ," he scoffed, exhaling out a cloud of smoke. "You know me. I like _anything._ " He giggled wickedly.

Harley smiled into the sheet as she started to drift off, knowing that was his way of saying he liked anything, so long as it was with her.

And that was her last conscious thought before she fell asleep, wonderfully fuzzy, and genuinely happy.

* * *

**A/N: Well, well, WELL. So much has happened.**

**Ed fills in quite a few gaps in this outrageously bloated plot, Harley & Vicki are pals again, the smut steps up a notch (was an entire paragraph detailing an orgasm really necessary? Maybe not, but I'll stand by it), and Crane is a total dickbag & flips. There was also a second Crane scene that wasn't especially illuminating so I edited it out, but I'll post that on Tumblr in a hot moment.   
**

**That scene with Ed is one of my favorites. I keep saying how much I love Ed and Harley's dynamic, and it's definitely more intense and complicated than the manicures & shopping friendship I'm sure some of you are hoping for :D  
**

**Re: Ed's squad comment—I realized upon editing that Suicide Squad is the most obvious squad. I'm actually referencing the like, Taylor Swift #blessed #squad goals basic-bitch Instagram-style squad. But whatever works for you, dear readers.  
**

**I'd like to give a shout out to Bruno, who died in chapter 21 of the Harlequin almost one year ago today. 29 September is International Bruno Remembrance Day.[You can find a shrine/ memorial to him on my Tumblr.](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/630409325758873600/it-will-be-one-year-on-tuesday-since-bruno-died-in) Please feel free to submit your own homages. **

**_Next Week: Things come to a head at the Wayne Foundation fundraiser in the last chapter of Part 1._ **

**This fic is split into two-parts, FYI.**

**And uh, next week is pretty tense but there are some outrageously cheesy/fluffy tropes that will hopefully offset that somewhat. Just, ya know, keep in mind what happened at the ends of Part 1 & 2 in the Harlequin. There's usually something big and upsetting and plot-altering in these chapters so... be prepared for that.  
**

**On that dread-inspiring note, please comment and/or review! I love to hear from you all, it's what keeps me going. My Asks are always open on Tumblr.**

**Oh, and leave another Kudos if Ao3 will let ya ;)**

**xo**


	13. Chapter 13

_Theme: Katie Gatley - 'Allay' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/3aWFbKfOiemDOEd5Y7dIVg?si=uXsjKT4nSNCXy5HEEsjD7g)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/DYGET8LDYEU))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

13.

* * *

It was just before dawn when Harley and the Joker pulled up out front of Samantha Pierce's building, parking a few cars down from the dark blue BMW waiting there.

The Joker glanced sideways at Harley, taking note that while she'd managed to shake off some of that uncertain _moodiness_ , she was still looking a little too _pinched_ for his liking. She was wearing one of his shirts, which she'd chopped up to fit herself on their travels, the cherry-red polyester printed with pale blue and white hibiscus flowers stark against her pale face. Pale and pinched, but she also had that determined _gleam_ in her eye, the one that meant there would be _no_ stopping her.

That was bad news for Black Mask. Even the most vicious of killers found themselves sobbing at Harley Quinn's feet once they got on her bad side—a spoiled little _daddy's boy_ like Sionis didn't stand a chance.

And the Joker was really… _really_ looking forward to watching her go to work on him.

"You really need your bag _this_ bad, huh?" he drawled, reaching into the backseat to grab a brown paper sack off the floor.

"I liked that red dress," Harley shot him a smirk. "Besides Samantha's got this green number for tonight."

 _"Women_ ," the Joker rolled his eyes, pulling a pistol with a suppressor attached out of the bag. "All you care about is _clothes._ "

Harley chuckled and hung back while the Joker strolled up the street to the BMW, the gun hidden rather indiscreetly behind his back. He pulled the MGGA hat down over his eyes and knocked twice on the window, waiting for the driver to roll it down halfway before he shoved the suppressed gun inside and fired four shots— _zip-zip! zip-zip!_ —two for each of Harley's babysitters.

"There goes you being a nice little _terrorist_ for hire," he observed when she joined him.

"I'm sick of pretending," Harley shrugged. "I'd rather have them try to hunt me down."

"Mm, me _too_ ," he flashed her a roguish smirk and Harley grinned back at him, ecstatic about playing offense for a change.

The crosses the street to Samantha's apartment and Harley disappeared into the bedroom to pack whatever she seemed to think she needed while the Joker loitered in the living room, squinting at the murder board over the couch. The names taped to the wall were all familiar enough, all of them boring, all of them _schemers_ in the same mold as their leader, Black Mask.

The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth as his eyes landed on the card bearing Black Mask's real name—Roman Sionis. A little shiver of _discontent_ rolled over his shoulders as he thought about the country club prick they'd met at the Tobacconist's Club. The idea that a guy like _that_ thought he could put on a mask and tell Harley Quinn to _submit..._ Ooh… J couldn't tell if it pissed him off or if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his fucking _life_.

But the tension stringing his body tight like a bow seemed to indicate the former was winning out, forcing him to bottle a few violent impulses, a practice he personally found… _unnatural_. It took a lot to get the Joker up to genuine anger, tempting him to act when he wasn't yet ready to make his move, tempting him to be _stupid_. Getting his blood pressure up nice and high like a tea kettle ready to _pop_.

Sionis was Harley's to tear apart, but the Joker was hopeful she'd be generous enough to let him take a _swing_ or two if he asked nicely, a thought that made a genuine grin slide onto his lips.

Harley emerged from the bedroom, that stubborn gleam shining bright in her cold blue eyes, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, ready to abandon ship.

"Alright," she sighed, determined. "Let's go get Ed."

* * *

Ed's eyes were burning with exhaustion. He'd worked a full shift at the Iceberg Lounge—somehow, he was _still_ short on money—and after the club closed around dawn he'd grabbed a bus straight to the East Pier, an area Uptown dominated by cranes and shipping containers.

The sun had risen by the time Ed found the dock Harley instructed him to meet them at, his heart pounding in his throat, unsure what to expect. She'd texted him the night before with an address and a time, and no other explanation. Believe it or not, Ed wasn't really a thrill-seeker, not unless there was a major pay off. But the promise of working with Harley Quinn _definitely_ fell into the category of possible-big-pay-off.

Ed hovered behind a shipping container, examining the small group waiting for him. They stood against the backdrop of Gotham's East River, the sun high overhead, the promise of another unbearably hot day to come.

There was a tall, muscled man with a spray tan and a bleach blonde ponytail, who must have been some kind of henchman, leaning against the trunk of a dusty little red Nisson. The Joker was sprawled out on the hood, dressed exactly as he had been the day before, MGGA hat and all, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he spoke to Harley. She was wearing the same outfit too, those cute little cut off shorts that were just a fraction of a centimeter away from being slutty—Ed was a _big_ fan of slutty, on men _and_ women—and a Hawaiian-print shirt that had seen better days, but showed off a highly-enviable little body indeed.

Her hair was all bouncy and clean.

And her face was _perfect._

Ed slipped out from behind the shipping container, cautiously approaching them with only his Smith and Wesson tucked in the back of his suit trousers to protect him. The Joker spotted him first, his face souring as he nodded in Ed's direction, prompting Harley to turn around and push her knock-off Ray Bans up on her head.

"Hey, Ed," she called, a little flirtatiously, a smirk sliding onto her lips as she strolled up to him. "Black Mask's real name is Roman Sionis," she announced, making Ed's eyes widen. "He's a business consultant for Hamilton Hill. He works with dictators, terrorists, and businessmen right here in Gotham, and he _hates_ Bruce Wayne."

She came to a stop in front of Ed, cocking her head to the side as she held his gaze, reading him.

"He's going to be at Wayne's fundraiser tonight," she smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Want to help us steal him?"

Quite remarkably, Ed found himself speechless. She wasn't wearing her Harlequin paint—hell, she wasn't even wearing heels or makeup—but the _fierceness_ was rolling off her in _waves_. Ed's heart leaped happily because since the night he'd met Harley at the Iceberg Lounge, he'd sensed they had a connection. Now here she was, inviting him to join her team to take down Black Mask, and even if she was dressed completely tragically, she was still managing to be hot and scary, and _so_ much more, promising Ed all kinds of _fun_.

"Sure," he grinned, batting his eyelashes at her. "I love a party."

"Mmhmm," she smirked, turning to stroll back to the Joker.

"So, what's the plan?" Ed asked eagerly, following her.

"We'll get you on the guestlist," Harley explained. "You attack the party, throw out some riddles and scare the trust fund brigade, distract security. We'll grab Roman in the chaos. Frost is our getaway driver." She hitched a thumb at the bodybuilder.

"So it's just the four of us?" Ed frowned. You don't have any other men?"

"Alexandra Kosov controls all the muscle in town," the Joker drawled, stretching two lanky arms over his head, reminding Ed of a ventriloquist's dummy. "And your buddy Black Mask controls her."

"We don't need anyone else," Harley flashed Ed a sweet smile. "The Riddler attacked three galleries in three weeks without backup."

"Galleries are poorly guarded," Ed pointed out, seeing right through her attempt to flatter him—which he completely loved and appreciated, by the way. "Wayne Manor will be a different story."

"Maybe," Harley shrugged carelessly and leaned against the Nisson's hood so the Joker could wrap an arm around her from behind, like a couple of teenagers on the bleachers.

How old were they anyway?

"One more rule," Harley said. "You can't kill anyone."

"Um, _why?"_ Ed made a face.

"Because our contact on the inside is… _delicate_ ," Harley explained, twisting around to exchange a look with the Joker, who rolled his eyes like he also thought it was a stupid rule. "And I want to keep her happy… for now," Harley added.

"Fine," Ed agreed, watching them closely. "No dead richies, no backup, no weapons aside from what I can sneak in through the front door." He huffed impatiently, pretending to be annoyed when really, he was _thrilled_. "Is there anything you _can_ give me?"

"How about freedom," Harley suggested, shrugging off the Joker and swaying back up to Ed, being _very_ sassy about all of it.

"Freedom?" Ed raised an amused eyebrow.

"You just spent all night _bartending_ ," Harley pointed out, her expression pitying, which Ed _hated_. "Black Mask is your boss, Lucy is your boss, Alexandra Kosov is your boss. Don't you want to tell _all_ of them to fuck off?"

"Maybe," Ed admitted, shifting uncomfortably, knowing she was using that pretty face and that bouncy blonde hair and that, frankly, _incredible_ body to trick him into thinking they were friends. "Do you do pilates?" he blurted out.

"No," Harley took it in stride like the professional she was. "So, what do you say?" she pressed. "Can you come up with a distraction while we grab Roman?"

"I think I can handle that," Ed agreed slyly.

It all felt very… thrown together, which Ed didn't mind too much. As far as plans went, he was a fan of leaving room for improvisation. And from what he knew about Harley and the Joker, and what he saw a couple of days earlier at City Hall, carrying off something big and last minute was where they excelled.

"Great," Harley said drily, dropping her little schtick about being nice to Ed for a brief moment, enough to make him pout.

"I have one condition," Ed announced haughtily, forcing Harley to turn around, her eyebrows raised. "You have to come shopping with me," he smirked. "If you're going to fit in at Wayne Manor you're gonna need a little help."

Harley laughed, a throaty chuckle that was a little bit dickish, a little bit sweet. Then she made a patronizing face like she thought Ed was adorable, which he couldn't decide how to feel about.

"I've already got something to wear," she promised him. "Next time," she added, winking before she ducked into the front seat of the Nisson.

Ed sighed as he watched their crappy little car putter away, feeling...

He wasn't sure what.

* * *

It was with a sense of dread that Lucy took the private elevator to Roman's penthouse. That dread wasn't new, but it had been growing exponentially since Jonathan Crane arrived at the Iceberg Lounge the night before, ready to make a deal.

Lucy hadn't heard the details of that deal since Roman kicked her out of the car before Crane started talking, but she'd been around when the Scarecrow was ripping people off with his bad drugs before, and she'd heard _plenty_ back then. He was a terrible combination of arrogant and lecherous. That wasn't the sort of guy you got into business with.

Roman had promised stability, a profitable business, and _respect_. He wasn't supposed to be negotiating with terrorists. First Harley Quinn, and now the Scarecrow? What was next? Would he recruit Poison Ivy _? Mind control_ was absolutely _not_ something Lucy was prepared to deal with.

While her advice about Harley had been ignored—or rather, _belittled—_ Lucy hoped Roman might be more open to her position on Crane. Whatever the Scarecrow had to offer, they should get it out of him and send him packing, either back to Arkham or to the bottom of the East River. He was dangerous in an entirely different way than Harley—easy to predict, and sure to fuck then over as soon as he was able to.

Instead of Circe, Lucy was welcomed into the penthouse by a maid, who took her jacket and offered her iced tea before showing Lucy out onto the sun deck.

"Lucy," Roman greeted her with a smile. He was wearing a white polo shirt and white shorts, a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes, a bright red drink with a slice of orange in a crystal cut glass in his hand. He looked, Lucy thought, like money and entitlement personified on his new sun deck, with its views of Gotham's Midtown.

The effect was only ruined by Crane, pale and bearded, and sitting beneath an umbrella on a deck chair. He had a new suit and looked less scruffy than he had the night before, though he still hadn't shaken off the lingering stench of desperation.

Lucy pressed her lips together; she hadn't expected him to be there. Roman bringing the Scarecrow up to the penthouse only meant one thing: he'd decided to bring Crane under his wing.

Like he could tell what she was thinking, Crane narrowed his pale blue eyes shrewdly.

 _Good_ , Lucy thought. She _wanted_ him to know what a fuck up she thought he was.

"Hi, boss," Lucy forced a smile, her eyes lingering on Crane. "We need to talk."

"I'm always available to talk, Lucy," Roman smiled beatifically, gesturing to Crane. "Do you know Dr Crane?"

"We met a couple times," Lucy forced another pinched smile. "How ya doin' Dr Crane?"

Crane glowered at her in silence.

"Not well, as you can see," Roman sighed, moving closer to Lucy as he removed his sunglasses and tucked them neatly into the neck of his polo shirt. "Jonathan here just spent a month working with the Joker and Harley Quinn." He explained, pausing to look over his shoulder at Crane. "Haven't you, Jonathan?"

"Yes," Crane sneered.

"Because," Roman turned back to Lucy, his sunken eyes taking on a malevolent glint, sending a shiver of fear racing up her spine. "While Harley has been telling you stob stories about her _relationship_ troubles, she and the Joker have been efficiently working out the intricacies of our operation."

Roman stopped in front of Lucy, running his tongue over his white teeth. Looking annoyed.

"Isn't that right, Jonathan?" he snapped, staring at Lucy intently.

But before Crane could confirm, Roman lashed out at Lucy, backhanding her so hard she yelped. Her head snapped to the side, pain exploding across the lower half of her face as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She gasped, her hand flying up to hold her stinging cheek while she stared straight ahead at a deckchair, unsure what to do.

"Harley _played_ you, Lucy," Roman sneered, strolling over to a drinks cart and adding a few more ice cubes to his glass. "I mean, you're a _moron_ so I don't know what I was expecting," he added bitterly.

Lucy took two deep breaths before she straightened up, her teeth grinding together as she squared her shoulders and faced Roman bravely.

"Did ya really think they wouldn't fight back?" she demanded quietly.

"Why would they?" Roman scoffed, pitching forward to rest his elbows on his knees, taking a sip of his fancy drink. "No one else does. They never do. Why should these two be any different?"

Lucy pinched her lips together, unwilling to give Roman any further council. Not just because he would disregard it, but because she was no longer interested in saving him.

Then there was a hand on Lucy's arm, and she turned around to see Victor standing there, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Victor, take Lucy home," Roman instructed, flapping a hand at them. "Security is about to get much tighter and we wouldn't want anything to happen to her."

"You got it, boss," Victor replied obediently, his hand tightening around Lucy's arm, reminding her who he really worked for.

* * *

The tailor's shop felt like it stood still in time, never changing. The shriveled old man with his monocle always shuffled out of the back with a magnanimous smile, and his irritating wife always buzzed around Harley and the Joker as if they were normal people. They were the tailor's only customers though, so perhaps they just didn't have anyone else to compare them to.

Harley had changed into Samantha's evening gown, her costume for the evening. It was forest green and made of slinky satin, with a low v neck and capped, beaded sleeves, covering her better than Samantha's clothes usually did. She wound her platinum hair into a conservative bun at the nape of her neck, and applied some light make up she'd brought from Samantha's too, then clipped on glittery earrings to help dress it all up while she waited for the Joker to finish his disguise.

The tailor had pulled together a tuxedo at the last minute, tailoring something he had on hand to the Joker's measurements. Harley chuckled when he turned around on the raised platform in front of a three way mirror, spreading his arms in a lazy pose.

"Whaddya think?" he lifted an eyebrow at her then hopped off the box gracelessly.

"It'll do," Harley smirked, grabbing a pair of circular glasses and reaching up to pop them on his face. They transformed him into something closer to a professor than a terrorist with his hair clean and tucked behind his ears the way it currently was. "I'm not sure about this spray on beard thing, though," she wrinkled her nose.

"It'll work," he reassured her wryly, his hand skating up her side, following the curve of her gown over her hip to her waist before he yanked her close.

Harley laughed and grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, trying to focus on _him_ instead of that _uncertain_ feeling. The uncertainty had been held at bay for the past few days since they reconciled, but it was peaking through again, her lack of faith in Ed making her anxious.

The Joker seemed to pick up on her mood, and in an uncharacteristically generous show of patience, his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her up against him as he held her gaze thoughtfully.

"You wanna say fuck it and take off?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harley licked her lips, trying to envision bailing like they'd done at Christmas.

"No," she said, with certainty. "I want to see Roman suffer."

"Mm, me _too_ ," the Joker agreed, widening his eyes, making Harley laugh a little easier this time.

Ed couldn't be trusted, that was much was certain, but his role in their plan was simply to create a distraction. All they needed to do was get Roman alone—with Vicki's promised help—knock him out, and drag him off through a back kitchen where Frost would be waiting.

Then, once they were at a safe house in the Meatpacking District, Harley could take out all her uncertainty and frustration on Roman, which was sure to be far more satisfying than dealing with Ed would be.

From there it was simple. Get Roman to spill on the other members of the False Face Society. Get it on tape to expose them in the media. Then take them out one by one, discrediting them, murdering them, and then...

Well, they hadn't actually gotten that far yet.

You didn't want to plan _too_ far in advance, after all.

The tailor's wife came blustering in then, huffing and complaining in Italian, apparently annoyed at Harley like she always was. She gestured for the Joker to hold his hand out, which he did, looking amused as she deposited two rings in his palm, giving one last snappy reprimand to an exasperated Harley before she hurried off again.

"I'm gonna kill her," Harley muttered as the Joker popped one of the rings, a simple gold band, onto his left ring finger, then grabbed Harley's hand.

"Don't get any ideas," he joked drily, sliding the ring onto her left ring finger.

"Oh please," Harley smirked, looping her arms around his waist and tipping her head back to look up at him. "As if I'd have you."

"Uh huh," he chuckled, tugging the bun at the back of her head loose, letting her hair swing free down her back.

Then he backed her up into the dressing room, making Harley snicker as she stretched up to kiss him.

* * *

When Dinah moved into Wayne Manor with Bruce and Alfred, she was given a choice of fifteen bedrooms to call her own. She chose the smallest one, which was still obscenely large and lavishly decorated, but was also closest to the living room so she could get to the secret passage without winding through endless twisting corridors.

The caterers arrived at dawn, shortly after Bruce and Dinah returned from patrolling. Not long after that, the party planner and representatives from the Wayne Foundation arrived. Alfred seemed an old hand at fundraiser-party-planning-coordinating and took the lead while Bruce and Dinah caught up on sleep, though Dinah didn't find rest easily with the looming threat of socializing with the trust fund brigade.

When she emerged that afternoon, the manor was a flurry of activity in preparation for the party. She hung back awkwardly, not knowing what to do with herself as she tried to procure food, a nearly impossible task when the kitchens had been taken over by a catering team of eighty.

There were florists everywhere you looked, people setting up tables and hanging strings of lights outside, making themselves perfectly at home in a space that had only recently started to feel like home to Dinah.

Then a personal shopper from Saks arrived, bringing ten different dresses for Dinah to try on, all of them conservative and simple per Alfred's instructions, but with price tags that made Dinah's eyes bulge.

Refusing to be subjected to parading around in each gown for the personal shopper, Dinah picked out a cornflower blue one, announcing it would do the job without trying it on.

It was just _a lot_ , and though Dinah had no problem fighting bad guys in back alleys, being confronted with personal shoppers and party planners was another challenge entirely.

As evening approached, she changed into her dress, feeling silly in the flouncy skirt, and tied her ashy blonde hair back in a low ponytail. She wasn't entirely sure why she was being subjected to this when she wasn't a member of the Wayne family—and she wasn't pretending to be either—and it was hardly an appropriate time to take nights off, though thus far they had no leads on either clown.

The party would wrap up by 1 AM, and though Bruce would need to stay home because of Vicki—Dinah tried not to roll her eyes thinking about it—Dinah would be changing out of her silk dress and into her Black Canary armor as soon as the last fundraiser guest was out the front door.

She sighed at the image she made in the mirror, obviously trying too hard to be something she wasn't, and somehow still managing to look like a street rat even in a dress that cost more than most people's rent.

There was a knock on her bedroom door, and Bruce poked his head in. He looked infinitely more suited to the role of trust fund brigade pretender, and when he saw Dinah in her dress, he laughed outright.

"Thanks," she said drily, shooting him a dirty look in the mirror.

"You just look so miserable," he protested, pushing the door closed behind him, and hastily adding, "But very pretty."

"Pretty?" Dinah raised a dubious eyebrow. "That's low on my list of priorities."

"I know," Bruce shrugged helplessly and reached into his tuxedo jacket. "Uh, listen, I wanted to give you something."

"What?" Dinah asked warily, watching him pull out a flat, rectangular box made of dark blue velvet.

She shot Bruce a warning look that made him chuckle as he handed it to her, making Dinah sigh, feeling unbearably embarrassed that Bruce was giving her _jewelry_.

"Open it," Bruce suggested awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. Dinah opened the box, her eyes widening at the glossy string of pearls sitting inside. "They were my mother's," Bruce explained, subdued.

"Bruce," Dinah looked between the pearls and Bruce's face a few times, her throat feeling thick as she realized what this was. "I can't."

"If I had a sister, these would have gone to her," Bruce explained with a shrug.

Dinah looked into the corner of the room as an annoying, unfamiliar stinging suddenly hit her behind the eyes, and all she could think of to do was glare at Bruce to ward it off, making him laugh awkwardly.

"I'm sorry you're being subjected to all this," he waved a hand at the door behind him, indicating the party while Dinah tried and failed to maintain her glare.

"It's very inconvenient," she agreed, pulling Martha Wayne's pearls from the box before she looked up at Bruce. "Are you sure? You don't want to give them to Vicki?"

Bruce rolled his eyes and gestured for Dinah to hand him the pearls so he could help her put them on.

"Vicki hasn't saved my life more times than I can count," he pointed out, joining the clasp behind her neck.

"She hasn't kicked your ass more times than you can count either," Dinah smirked, making Bruce laugh again.

* * *

Ed spent the day preparing for the fundraiser, buying himself a gorgeous new suit—Armani, black, double-breasted, waistcoat, very luxe _Murder on the Orient Express_ vibes—and treating himself to a manicure and a facial, all the while staying in touch with Harley via text. She was texting him a running list of updates—security numbers, timings, _yawn_ —which made him think she might be more Type A than he'd originally given her credit for.

What a _weirdo_.

He hired a limousine to drive him out to the Palisades, and even though Ed _loved_ a limo, he couldn't help the twinge of… _mehhhhhh_ that was ruining the whole experience of planning a job with the Joker and Harley Quinn. She'd been wonderfully attentive to him that morning, making him feel special and playing coy and popping her hip like the sassy little terrorist he knew her to be. But now? Now they were just... _coordinating_.

And it took Ed almost all day to realize that he didn't just want to work with her.

He wanted her to _like_ him.

Was that so much to ask?

He pouted the entirety of the drive to the Palisades, not feeling inspired in the slightest about taking a party hostage, even if there did promise to be plenty of jewelry to steal, which meant plenty of money to make. He'd even read the Waynes had a few Faberge eggs sitting out on display—who didn't want a Faberge egg in their collection? One or two would look _fabulous_ in Ed's kitchen.

This was usually the part before a job where his toes would start curling with anticipation… but this time they were notably limp in his fantastic Alexander McQueen Oxfords.

Stupid Harley.

But _then_ Ed got a text, one that opened a new door for that anticipation to come flooding through, one that would make things _much_ more interesting, and possibly impress Harley too.

* * *

Vicki got to Wayne Manor twenty minutes early and immediately helped herself to some champagne. She'd spent the past twenty-four hours an anxious mess, trying to focus on work when the burner phone in the bottom of her handbag seemed liable to burn a radioactive hole through the leather.

Detective Montoya finally returned Vicki's call, but Vicki ignored her.

A very large, very reasonable part of Vicki felt incredibly stupid. Like she was once again being duped by Harley Quinn, which… she probably was. But then she reminded herself what was at stake, what Roman wanted, and what Harley was capable of doing that the police were not. _Exposing_ him, just like Lois Lane tried and failed to do.

Good and bad were not black and white, Vicki reminded herself, chugging a flute of champagne.

At first, Vicki was left to her own devices, which meant loitering near the table of free booze and people watching until Alfred shepherded Bruce and Dinah out to greet their guests. Vicki took note that they both looked exceedingly uncomfortable, Bruce's capacity to project smug billionaire apparently diminished when Dinah was in the vicinity. Vicki wasn't entirely sure why Dinah was being subjected to it, considering she was supposedly Alfred's niece, and she could only pin it on a misguided attempt to make her feel included.

It was very much the same crowd as had been present at the Tobacconist's Club, Gotham's wealthiest and most elite citizens. They swanned in through the Manor's front entrance to be greeted first by a line of photographers, and then by a table of Wayne Foundation people handing out envelopes for donations, and _then_ by well-heeled waiters with flutes of champagne before they finally made it to Bruce, who was flanked by Dinah and Vicki, all of them smiling tightly as they shook hands and welcomed guests.

There were members of the Kane family and the Dumas family and the Crowne family, and the cast members from _Made in the Diamond District_ and _Real Housewives of Gotham_ , including Hamilton Hill's daughter even though Hill himself hadn't been invited. But Vicki had her eyes peeled for one man: Roman Sionis.

Then, after an hour of shaking hands and smiling, she was confronted with a different face to contend with.

"Shit," Vicki hissed, seeing Harley and the Joker breeze through the front doors with the other guests, their disguises so unfathomably flimsy it had to be intentional.

Harley was wearing a slinky green dress, her platinum hair knotted at the back of her head, wearing very little makeup. If you only knew the pictures of her from Arkham and CCTV cameras, you might not recognize her, but it was still outrageously obvious. Meanwhile, the Joker was wearing a tux and a pair of glasses, his scars only just hidden behind a film of stubble. Again: outrageous.

Vicki tried not to stare as they turned down photos, then Harley graciously accepted a donation envelope from the Wayne Foundation people. They both grabbed glasses of champagne, and linked their arms to clink the crystal together before knocking the bubbles back like they were just there to enjoy themselves.

Harley spotted Vicki, a smirk sliding onto her lips as she waved and started toward her.

Vicki glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Dinah had disappeared for the moment, and Bruce was absorbed in a conversation with Lulu Crowne that he looked desperate to get out of it.

"Vicki, _dahling_ ," Harley greeted her, putting on a British accent that made Vicki's teeth grind together. "You know my husband George," Harley continued, obviously enjoying herself.

The Joker giggled wickedly at Vicki's mortified expression.

"You couldn't wear a wig or something, _Ann_?" Vicki hissed.

"No one will notice," Harley reassured her in her normal voice, her eyes sweeping the room. "Is he here?"

"I haven't seen him yet," Vicki admitted, rolling her shoulders back as uneasiness spread through her. "This feels…"

"Forced," Harley filled in, her face darkening. "Don't worry. We've got a backup plan."

"A backup plan?" Vicki's eyes widened. "What does that mean?"

"It means relax and enjoy yourself," Harley offered Vicki a smile that was supposed to be reassuring but looked strained. _Forced_.

"Alright," Vicki agreed warily. "I'll text you if he comes in this way."

 _"Lovely,"_ Harley said in the British accent again. "Cheerio, _dahling_ ," she beamed before they swept off.

* * *

The city of Gotham was built on rocky limestone, ideal for building skyscrapers on the main island. But the farther out you got, the more porous the land became, with deep caves full of ancient stalactites. The land around the Palisades was like this, riddled with caves stretching far underground, an ideal plot of land for mansions with deep foundations. They were also ideal for housing the dynastic crypts of Gotham's wealthiest families.

The Sionis family's crypt was in one such cave. The walls glistened with moisture, two matching tombs laying silent and still, only the steady drip, drip, drip of water cutting through the quiet of death. The crypt had recently been updated with an elevator, modern and silver, and outfitted with a cheerful bell that tinkled when the doors opened.

Crane didn't traditionally have strong feelings one way or another about cemeteries, but his new benefactor had an affinity for them. Specifically, his family crypt, where Roman's parents were buried, and where official business was carried out with the False Face Society, the group Roman had invited Crane to join.

It was all very… _theatrical_ , reminding Crane exceedingly of the League of Shadows in the pomp and circumstance. He had yet to attend a meeting, but Roman explained about the use of masks and cloaks to keep identities secret. Powerful men and women were members of the False Face Society. They relied on Roman to discreetly give them what they wanted.

It sounded like a cult.

A cult that met in a cemetery.

A cult that would provide Crane access to the blue poppy.

So be it.

"Do you think she will fight back very hard?" Roman asked suddenly. He was wearing his mask, his voice a low electronic purr.

They were sitting across from each other in the crypt, waiting for a third to join them.

"Yes," Crane replied, his impatience thinly veiled. "She is very strong-willed."

"Strong-willed," Black Mask mused. "I don't mind a challenge."

* * *

If Harley never had to duplicitously socialize with the members of the trust fund brigade again, it would be too soon. For a solid hour, she and the Joker managed to have some fun playing George and Ann Smiley, a wealthy couple keen to donate to the Wayne Foundation. But it got old fast, the Joker especially getting bored of playacting. He was about five seconds away from pulling out the revolver tucked into his sock and causing a ruckus, by Harley's estimation.

Roman still hadn't shown up, as Vicki pointed out each time she spoke to Wayne then anxiously flitted over to them with another pointless update. She was being too obvious, and it was making Harley nervous.

_Fuck._

The Joker sighed melodramatically as he considered a cocktail stick with a shrimp perched on the end, making it known that he was employing a significant amount of self-control while Harley leaned against his shoulder, her eyes searching the room.

"I'm gonna smoke," he muttered, shrugging her off and strolling away, his gate straight and steady instead of his usually rolling lope.

Harley watched him walk away, her mind wandering to his suggestion that they take off again, just hop on a plane and leave Gotham. Because _this_ was terrible, and though she didn't tend to plan long term—a few days, maybe a few weeks in advance at most—anymore, Harley couldn't see a viable outcome for them in this city.

For a few hours, she had started to feel like she was about to get the upper hand on Black Mask. But now… with so much relying on Vicki Vale and the fucking _Riddler…_ now she was wondering if this wasn't a death trap after all.

What did she want more?

To live? Or try to take down Roman?

It was hard to accept that she might not be able to have both.

Harley sighed and let her eyes sweep the room once more before she headed for the bathroom to touch up her hair and makeup for the sake of having something to do with herself. The thrill of hiding in plain sight with the Joker at her side had long since worn off, leaving her with this empty feeling of foreboding that made her want to rip her own intestines out.

She turned a corner to a large, empty hallway lined with marble pillars, and briefly wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this, with all of its luxuries and its treasures on display. What would that have been like for Bruce Wayne as a child? To ride his big wheel across these Italian marble floors, or to scrawl on these old, expensive tapestries with crayons.

A blonde in a blue dress was heading up the hallway toward Harley, ostensibly coming from the restrooms, which were no doubt as luxurious as everything else in Wayne Manor. The blonde's head was down, and Harley hardly took any notice of her until she stopped to talk to an old man wearing a butler's uniform. Then Harley saw the blonde's face, and it took her a few seconds to accept who she was seeing.

Harley stopped short, her eyes widening.

Dinah.

It was Dinah Drake.

She was wearing a pretty blue dress and pearls around her neck, and her ashy blonde hair was still the same, shaved at the sides and tied back in a stubby ponytail. She looked healthier, well-fed.

What the hell was she doing there?

As Harley stood there staring, unsure what to do, the butler turned to leave and Dinah stared after him for a moment. Then she turned down another hallway, out of Harley's line of sight.

Harley prepared to bolt after her, but an arm suddenly snaked around her waist from behind, yanking her back behind a marble pillar. Harley snarled and stomped down on her attacker's instep, throwing her elbow back into their gut, knocking the wind out of them. But before she could fight them off completely, they threw a rag over her face.

Harley had used chloroform on enough people to be familiar with the smell. It filled her nose and mouth, making her head spin, and she felt herself start to slip… slip… slip away…

* * *

Frost didn't typically call the Joker—he called you if he needed something, and you'd damn sure better be available to answer when he did.

It had been a good three hours since Frost dropped Harley and the Joker off in front of Wayne Manor, and he'd been circling the property ever since. The plan was to wait for their call or for screaming over the Riddler's attack to kick off—whichever happened first— then meet them around the back of the manor once they'd subdued Roman. But Frost never got a call, and he'd yet to hear any screaming.

Frost had pretty good instincts, and it was hard to ignore his growing sense of dread that something bad had happened.

Eventually, guests started leaving the party, their limousines and town cars lining up out front to pick them up. Frost drove up to the entrance, hoping to get a sense of what was going on, but by all appearances, everything was normal for Bruce Wayne's cheerful guests.

Without anyone to pick up, Frost circled the property again, and with little else to direct him, he kept circling until the tank started to run low on gas.

* * *

Vicki wasn't an expert on kidnapping plots, but she had assumed there would be something… _obvious_ about Roman Sionis being snatched. It'd been over three hours since she last saw Harley and the Joker, and she'd not once set eyes on Sionis. Trying not to be suspicious, she needled the guest list people to find out if he'd ever arrived. They said no, but that didn't mean he wasn't there, much to Vicki's frustration.

She could only guess the whole thing had been called off or Harley had actually succeeded and just been very quiet about it. Annoyingly, Vicki found herself feeling _grateful_ if it was the latter, if Harley had given her some plausible deniability and practiced discretion for once. And if they'd just given up well, that was a relief too.

But Vicki's gut told her otherwise—it told her something had gone wrong, and after three hours of worrying, she gave in and called Harley to check.

She stepped out onto the back patio, leaning against an elaborately carved stone railing as the phone rang. It rang, and rang, and Vicki's nerves stood on end as she envisioned Harley being too wrapped up in torturing Roman to come to the phone. Was that a good outcome? Was that what Vicki wanted? Was that preferable to something bad happening to Harley?

Then finally, someone answered. But it wasn't Harley Quinn.

"Hello, V," a soft voice purred down the line. "I wonder what _V_ stands for…"

Vicki's eyes widened. She cancelled the call, panic hitting her like a bolt of lightning as she stared down at the phone, trying to make sense of what was happening, of what it meant.

It meant someone had Harley's phone—It meant someone had Harley.

Panicking, Vicki pulled back her arm and pitched the phone into the garden, then turned on her heel and fled back into the house.

* * *

Harley woke up slowly, her eyelids impossibly heavy, her brain swimming like she was drunk. She inhaled sharply, trying to clear her head as she fought to open her eyes, but all she could see were shades of black and gray. She tried to speak, but her lips were fused together—there was tape covering her mouth, silencing her.

Her shoulders were aching, and it took her a few more seconds to realize it was because she was hanging from her wrists. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her as memories of that day in the basement with Victor rushed across her mind's eye. She blinked rapidly, her vision solidifying to the very unsettling image of her bare feet limp on a stone floor. There was an iron cuff around each of her ankles, rusted chains connecting the cuffs to the wall behind her.

Moving sluggishly, she turned her head to the side, accepting that her arms were stretched out in a T on either side of her, her wrists manacled and chained to the wall too. She took a deep breath and tried to plant her feet on the rocky ground beneath her. But her legs were like rubber, and she quickly slumped back down again, straining her shoulders further.

Harley hung there for about thirty seconds, breathing deeply to clear her head, trying to collect herself, trying to understand why she was chained to a wall in a basement. Eventually, she found the strength to lift her head again, and what she saw made a whimper catch in her throat.

Across from her, the Joker was unconscious, handcuffed, and hanging from a rusted iron loop sticking out of the stone ceiling. He was shirtless and barefoot, his feet tied with rope to a second iron loop sticking out of the ground.

Harley stared at him, horror creeping through her, as she slowly took in the details of the room they were in. It was like a cave, but there were two carved stone tombs, one against each wall.

It was a crypt.

Harley's heart started leaping wildly in her throat, and she tried to make a sound through the tape covering her mouth to get the Joker's attention, to wake him up. Her lips strain _e_ d against the tape as she found the strength to plant her feet and stand on her own, her aching arms still stretched out wide. She made a sound close to something like a squeal, and the Joker's head finally bobbed against his chest as he began to wake up.

He lifted his head, blinking sleepily at her before he looked around, taking it all in like he wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that he was chained up in a cave or a crypt or wherever they were. Then he released a long, annoyed sigh as he found his footing on either side of the metal loop his feet were tied to.

There was a cheerful _Beep!_ and a pair of silver elevator doors opened in the rock wall, revealing Roman, wearing a neat tuxedo and a crisp bowtie, his curly black hair raked back from his face, offering them a patient smile.

Harley made an enraged sound behind the tape, and she started to struggle against the manacles chaining her to the wall, huffing through her nose as she attempted to scream past her gag.

"Hello, Harley," Roman greeted her, his sunken eyes rolling over her quickly before he turned to the Joker. "J."

The Joker raised an unimpressed eyebrow, still looking sleepy.

"You know, Lucy was right about you, Harley," Roman sighed, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and tossing it over one of the tombs. "You're duplicitous." He loosened the collar of his shirt and set his bow tie aside before rolling up his sleeves. "I can't tell if it's an asset or… something that needs to be bred out."

Harley stopped struggling against her restraints, his words sending a wave of dread spreading through her, making the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

"I thought we could have something special," Roman continued, sounding put out as he drew closer to her. "I _hoped_ this could all come together… naturally."

Harley looked at the Joker over Roman's shoulder—he was watching warily, listening closely.

"It comes down to loyalty," Roman mused, his eyes trailing over her arms to the manacles chaining her to the wall. "We'll see if we can't fix that."

He met her eye, holding her gaze for a long moment, then ripped the tape off her mouth. Harley didn't flinch, she didn't say anything, she just stared at him, her heart pounding in her ears as she tried to understand what was happening.

"You don't have anything to say?" Roman raised his eyebrows.

Harley licked her lips, tasting the acrid glue from the tape as she considered her words carefully.

"Why are we here?" she settled on, her voice weak.

"That's a long story, Harley," Roman admitted, crossing his arms. "But the short version is Ed told me what you were planning and I got ahead of you."

Harley took a deep, angry, breath, fighting back a scowl.

Of course he did.

"And, obviously," Roman continued, turing to the Joker. " _Jonathan_ came to me looking for help since you were making his life miserable."

"So you're saying we brought this on ourselves," Harley sneered, jangling one of her manacles.

"Partially," Roman shrugged. "You just… accelerated things."

"What do you mean?" Harley narrowed her eyes. If she could get Roman to talk, maybe she could stall for time.

"You want the long version, huh?" Roman nodded. "I admit, I've wanted to share it with you." He took a step closer to her, his eyes softening as they drifted over her hair, which Harley only realised then was hanging loose around her shoulders instead of tied back. "I want to share so much with you, Harley."

Harley's eyes widened and she looked at the Joker over Roman's shoulder again. He was squinting at Roman like he didn't understand something.

"I suppose it started with Mayor Garcia," Roman continued, sliding his hands in his pockets. "It's actually remarkable what you two manage to achieve with the limited resources at your disposal. But I don't really have a use for that kind of chaos and violence, and it was always obvious to me the Joker can't be controlled."

He looked over his shoulder at the Joker, who had tipped his head back, watching through hooded eyes.

"So, when Alberto started clearing out some of the… let's call them, _unnecessary_ members of the workforce," he offered Harley a smile. "He was supposed to take you two out too."

"You had Alberto Falcone take out the mob's top brass as Holiday," Harley surmised. "Leaving weak people in charge so you could control them."

"Do you consider Lucy to be weak?" Roman asked, genuinely curious. "Sometimes she has moments of strength, but overall." He sighed like he was under duress. "This is the kind of thing I wish you could advise me on," he admitted, catching her eye. "But I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Why take over the mob?" Harley demanded. "What's in it for you?"

"The mob is the lifeblood of Gotham," Roman's eyebrows rose. "I'm surprised you don't know that."

"The mob is greedy and boring," Harley countered drily.

"Maybe," Roman agreed. "Those things aren't mutually exclusive. In any case, Alberto was all too happy to remove the people who would have been problems, and that was supposed to include you two." Roman started toward Harley again, his eyes narrowing, sending an uneasy ripple over her shoulders. "But then… I had a change of heart..."

"What does _that_ mean?" Harley snapped when he didn't say anything further.

"I mean I started to learn about you, Harley," Roman explained, his eyes settling on her throat. "I heard how close you two came to stopping Alberto on Christmas Day." He met her eye, his gaze intense. "And when I took the time to actually look at you… I was surprised."

"Surprised?" Harley spat, pressing her back flat against the wall as he edged closer to her.

"The Joker? He's a rabid dog. But you? Harley, you're different," Roman insisted, a smile growing on his full lips. "You're well-educated, you're beautiful, you're _ambitious_."

He stopped right in front of her, and Harley could only stare at him numbly as he lifted a hand between them. Like he wanted to touch her, just as he'd done in the Wayne crypt and in the basement of the Tobacconist's Club. But he'd been Black Mask then, a skull without a face, not a man. Now he was all too human, and he was making Harley's skin _crawl_.

"An orphan who grew up in foster care and ended up with a PhD," Roman laughed quietly, _affectionately_. "You're the American Dream."

Harley swallowed thickly, trying to find her voice.

"So you decided you'd rather have me work for you than kill me," she said at length.

"At first," Roman nodded. "You two had already disappeared, but I had a kind of… sixth sense it wasn't for good. That's when I started learning more about you." He raised his eyebrows. "A _lot_ more."

He turned around abruptly and strolled up to the Joker, who was looking deeply unimpressed.

"Not just from your men," Roman continued, examining the Joker curiously. "You know, J, there are hundreds of psychology journals out there with her work in them, for anyone who wants to read it. Have you ever even _bothered_ to learn about her?"

The Joker rolled his eyes stubbornly.

"I got to know how Harley Quinn's mind works. Analytical, observant, organized, strategic." He pushed on the Joker's shoulder experimentally, making him sway back in his restraints. "I spoke to your mentor Joan Leland, and I even listened to your tapes from Arkham."

"You spoke to Joan?" Harley demanded indignantly.

"I spoke to Sofia Falcone too," Roman admitted, turning back to Harley, smiling when her eyes widened with betrayal.

"Sofia knows about this?" Harley croaked.

"Not exactly," Roman shrugged. "But we had dinner when I was in Milan on business, and she had nothing but wonderful things to say about you when I asked." He chuckled. "Honestly, I think she's a little bored and misses the excitement."

The Joker groaned then, loud and exasperated. He started talking against the gag, his head flopping from side to side, not making any sense but easily conveying his irritation with the whole conversation.

Roman frowned like he wasn't sure what to make of the performance.

"He's not a big fan of the Falcones," Harley sneered.

"I've heard," Roman nodded, wagging a finger at the Joker. "You know, you really are a mystery. Your name, where you came from, how you got those hideous scars. I couldn't find answers to any of those questions." He squinted at the Joker. "Did you kill everyone who knows?"

The Joker didn't even bother to glare at Roman, he just stared back at him impassively, unfazed.

Roman cocked his head to the side, examining the Joker like he was a curiosity.

"Alberto told me about your work for his father," he continued. "And I even spoke to some guys who worked with you back then, including Victor, obviously." He looked up at the Joker's left arm where it was dangling overhead, a long rectangle of shiny scar tissue covering the inside of his forearm. "A skin grafter as a persuasive instrument—now that, I like." He cracked a small smile. "I'll have to add one to my repertoire… _Pretty Boy."_

Harley started struggling against her manacles again, hoping maybe she could rip one off the wall and use it as a weapon. It drew Roman's attention back to her.

"I love that you recruited Ed, by the way," he flashed her a smile as he pivoted away from the Joker to grab his tuxedo jacket off the tomb. "Ed's a funny one, isn't he."

Roman pulled a Gerber knife from the folds of his jacket and held it up to the light. Four inches, black handle, military-grade. Harley's pulse started to pound harder in her neck as she imagined all the places that knife could end up.

She caught the Joker's eye again, trying to find a solution to their captivity via eye contact alone. But he just stared back at her expectantly, and Harley realized he was doing that thing that drove her crazy and made her giddy in equal parts —he was waiting for an opening. For an opportunity to come along so he could snatch it. If he willed that opportunity into being, it would come, and they would survive.

That opportunity had always come before when they'd been in sticky situations.

But what if it didn't come this time?

"Ed's easy to control," Roman continued, examining the blade. "The old fashioned way, with money."

"Ed's a sociopath with ADHD," Harley corrected him. "His love of material wealth won't stop him from fucking you over."

"Oh, you mean like how he fucked _you_ over and told me everything?" Roman pointed out, looking amused. "You know, he was in really bad shape that night after the fundraiser." He feigned a wince. "It wasn't very deep but still… you stabbed him _twice_."

"I remember," Harley said flatly, her throat growing thick when Roman sidled up to the Joker.

"I think Ed deserves a little something for his trouble," Roman mused, making Harley's eyes widen.

"Wait…" she started to say.

But before she could protest further, Roman stabbed the Joker in the side, just beneath his ribs, exactly where Harley had stabbed Ed, but with a much shorter blade.

The Joker made a low, strangled sound, more like he was annoyed than in pain. He twisted away from Roman, the knife handle sticking out of his side as blood streamed down his stomach, pooling in the waistband of his tuxedo trousers.

Harley pinched her lips shut, knowing he wouldn't want her to beg. But listening to him grunt and roll his head in a circle made something horrible, something _painful_ twist in her chest. He wasn't in immediate danger of dying, he'd have to bleed for days to die from a wound like that, but Harley knew all too well what having a knife sticking out of your body felt like.

"So anyway," Roman continued breezily. "You two came back, and we started hearing about you within… I'd say days." He shot Harley a knowing look. "Subtlety isn't your strong suit."

"Gotham isn't usually a subtle place," Harley countered, pressing herself back against the wall when he started prowling closer to her again. "This would be about when you put Reeves in my path?"

"Arthur," Roman chuckled. "It's easy to dismiss him, I know. But… it's really impossible to quantify how much what he told me about you changed everything."

Harley narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Arthur likes what I like," Roman explained, waving his hand. "He wants what I want, he says what I say. His job was to get to know you a little bit, away from the Joker to see what inviting you to work with us might look like. And surprise surprise, Harley Quinn is more of a bored housewife in need of entertainment than a psychotic terrorist."

He laughed at the bewildered expression on Harley's face.

"So the first few times he meets you, he insists you're this feral psychopath, just like the Joker," Roman continued happily, like he was recounting a fond memory. "I knew that couldn't be the case, but he was adamant. But then you take him to that wine bar, and _everything_ changes."

He met Harley's eye again, and there was a tenderness in his expression that made her feel sick.

"Arthur tells me you finally opened up to him," Roman explained, edging closer to her. "He tells me actually, she's not just beautiful, but when she's smiling and wearing a nice dress, she's _stunning_." His eyes drifted over her hair. "And not only is she dangerous and _ruthless…_ but she's funny, and she's sexy, and she can even be sweet when she lets her guard down." He smiled softly, almost tenderly. "She's a fascinating dichotomy of so _many_ things."

Harley's skin started crawling as she realized how Roman was looking at her.

Like a _toy_ he'd been waiting to play with.

"So I had to meet you," he shrugged. "I needed Akins taken care of anyway, so why not? And I was _not_ disappointed, Harley. I mean," he laughed softly, his large eyes rolling back in his head. "The way you asked for Circe's dress, it was just… it was too perfect. And that was when I knew."

"What are you talking about?" Harley demanded, tugging on her manacles to distract herself from the queasy feeling consuming her.

"I mean, it's not _just_ about working together anymore," Roman looked genuinely emotional. "I want you to be my partner, Harley."

Bewildered and alarmed, Harley looked at the Joker, who was perfectly still despite having a knife embedded in his torso. He was glaring at the back of Roman's head like he was trying to see through him.

"Don't get me wrong. Circe was wonderful, but she was more like a placeholder," Roman continued thoughtfully. "She was gorgeous and obedient and she made great cookies." He met Harley's eye. "But she was hardly _strategic_. She wasn't someone who could advise me and work beside me. She wasn't _you_."

"What happened to her?" Harley pressed, dread unspooling inside her.

"Oh, you want to hear something _really_ funny," Roman suddenly broke into a grin, his white teeth like chicklets in two perfect rows. He glanced over his shoulder at the Joker. "You'll like this," he promised him, turning back to Harley, widening his eyes at her. "Circe's real name was Samantha Pierce."

That dread that had been rapidly unraveling inside Harley suddenly overwhelmed her as she finally realized what Roman was saying.

In the same way he'd turned Victor Zsasz from sick predator to dopey bodyguard, he'd turned Samantha Pierce into Circe.

And not only that…

"That's right," Roman laughed. "You've spent the past month living in Circe's apartment! Wearing her clothes, sleeping in her bed… all because I _put_ you there." He looked between Harley and the Joker again. "It's funny right?"

"What happened to her?" Harley demanded, her voice weak.

"She was a distraction," Roman shrugged helplessly.

"I meant, what did you _do_ to her?" Harley spat.

"The same thing I did to Victor," Roman fought back a smile. "I tamed her… I _liberated_ her."

Harley's eyes widened, horrified, making Roman chuckle.

"I thought you'd like that," he grinned. "Victor and I have gotten to know each other exceptionally well. He tells me everything."

"What did you _do_ to them?" Harley snapped.

"Oh, come on," Roman lifted an eyebrow at her. "It's simple conditioning. I give them a choice between pain and relief, and the cycle continues until I have something to work with."

"Torture," Harley inferred, her lip curling.

"In layman's terms, yes," Roman shrugged one shoulder. "What's the longest you've tortured someone, Harley?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you really going to pretend you have some kind of moral high ground?"

Harley ground her teeth together. "I have never taken away a person's free will."

"No, you just manipulate them into doing what you want and kill them when you lose interest or they're no longer immediately useful for you," Roman agreed blithely. "I prefer to invest more time in certain people, and then I keep them close." He frowned at her. "Are we really so different?"

Harley pressed her lips together, trying to think of a response to defend herself, to prove she was nothing like him.

"Victor was relatively easy," Roman continued, leaning against a tomb. "Circe was harder." He looked at Harley squarely. "She couldn't have any scars, for obvious reasons, but there were certain things she didn't need." He cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Like her tongue. She also had three sisters who were quite… reactive."

Harley stared at Roman, feeling genuinely speechless.

"You don't have sisters, and I need you to speak to advise me so," Roman waved his hands like he was weighing up the situation. "We're going to have to get creative."

"So," Harley's face darkened as a much more comfortable anger settled in. "You're saying you want to torture me inlto being your _girlfriend_?" She ground her teeth, her face twisting into an ugly scowl. " _That_ is what this is all about? You're just a _rapist_ under all this pretentious culty _bullshit_?"

"Rapist?" Roman looked bewildered. "I _respect_ you, Harley. I wouldn't touch you unless you asked me to," he made a face. "And believe it or not, sex is very low on my list of priorities. I want a _partner_ , not a sex toy."

Harley was shaking, outrage and anger making her vibrate as Roman sidled up to her.

"I think underneath it all, you know you want this too," he told her patiently, his eyes drifting over her hair. "I mean, _god_ , look at your hair," he sighed and smoothed a platinum lock back from her face.

Harley lurched away from him, repelled, but he grabbed a handful of her hair more forcefully, holding her in place so she couldn't pull away, his face unnaturally calm.

"It's exactly what I would have wanted," he said softly, examining the silvery-blonde waves in his fist.

"Get away from me!" Harley spat, and Roman swayed back with a sigh, releasing her hair.

"Fine," he agreed mildly. "All I'm asking is you advise me, protect me. Be my partner and stand beside me. Gotham is just one city, there's a whole world out there waiting for us."

"You have got to be joking," Harley laughed incredulously. "You think you can make me want to _be with_ _you_?"

"Sure," Roman offered her a small smile, his eyes soft again. "Just like Circe."

Harley could only stare at him, fighting with herself over how likely what he was suggesting was, and questioning the sanity behind it. Then her eyes drifted to the side, finding the Joker. He wasn't blank or impassive anymore. His jaw was twitching as he glowered at the back of Roman's head, looking more pissed off than Harley had ever seen him.

Harley looked at Roman, narrowing her eyes to a squint.

 **"** I'm _his_ partner," she said quietly, earning a dubious look.

"You are _way_ too good for him, Harley," he shook his head. "I know you went through some personal changes a couple of years back, and he was there for you or, whatever," he rolled his eyes dismissively. "But you are _not_ like him."

"Okay," Harley said slowly, changing tactics, trying to stall for time. "But I take it, I'm not the reason you're helping Daggett take over Wayne Enterprises?"

Roman laughed sharply, looking both surprised and pleased.

"What makes you think I want to take over Wayne Enterprises?" he asked, narrowing his eyes curiously, a smile on his full lips.

"I have sources," Harley sneered. "So, what's the plan? Are you going to torture Bruce Wayne into being one of your puppets too?"

"Now that's exactly the kind of thinking I'm after," Roman beamed. "That's why I need you."

"It wouldn't work," Harley added quickly. "I knew Victor was different the second I laid eyes on him. No one who knows Bruce would believe he was acting rationally or let him hand over his company."

"And again, you're right," Roman nodded, pleased. "Which is why we've decided to go down a more… technical route."

"Technical," Harley's brain jumped from one conclusion to the next, her eyes darting from the Joker back to Roman as she put the pieces together. "Anarky."

"Don't you mean…" Roman offered her the soft smile again, which was rapidly becoming more and more sinister to her. " _Lonnie_."

Harley knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but her teeth still ground together as disappointment made her stomach sink, the reality of being betrayed by both Ed _and_ Crane cutting through her confidence.

A memory flashed before her mind's eye, her own voice predicting this moment, rocking her to her very core.

_Narcissists over play their hands eventually—it's always how they get caught._

Harley released a shuddering breath, feeling confused, distracted, out of her depth. And _scared_.

Roman shifted closer to her, observing her frustration for a few moments before he reached up to touch her hair again, feeling _entitled_ to it.

Harley's thoughts of her own failures evaporated, replaced with a visceral rage that made her tremble.

"You're _psychotic_ ," she sneered.

"Are you kidding?" Roman laughed. "Frame your behavior next to mine." He took a step back and pulled a small black case out of his trouser pocket. "You two blow up kindergartens and play mind games with the media. But Harley, that isn't _you_. That's the Joker. I need you to understand this."

He unzipped the case, revealing a shiny silver scalpel inside, and seeing it made Harley's blood run cold.

Because she knew that scalpel wasn't for her.

"Fine," she said quickly, licking her lips as she forced herself to look Roman in the eye. "Fine, I'll do it, I'll be your new Circe. I'll protect you and advise you and do whatever you want." She swallowed thickly. "Just let him go."

The Joker started making a gruff panting sound, shaking his head furiously, but Harley refused to look at him.

"Let him go?" Roman laughed, slipping the scalpel back in its case. "Are you serious?"

"Maybe then," Harley licked her lips again, trying to get creative. "I could hunt him for you," she met Roman's sunken eyes across the room. "We could take bets on how long it would take."

She tried to make her expression beguiling even though inside, she felt like she was dying. The Joker was grunting and huffing through his nose, trying to get her attention, but she refused to look at him. She held Roman's gaze instead, trying to cover the fear coursing through her.

"Don't you want to see me kill him slow," she asked softly. "Slow and _messy._ "

Roman started toward her, his eyebrows raised, intrigued.

"Because I know how to hurt him better than anybody," Harley continued, her skin crawling as he got closer. "And I know _exactly_ how you want to watch me do it."

Roman stared at her for a few long seconds, then he chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

"You're good," he wagged a finger at her, making Harley deflate until she was hanging from the manacles again. "You're _really_ good. You have no idea how tempting that is. To watch you hunt him down and rip him apart." His eyes rolled back in his head. "You're right, I would love to see that. Maybe we go big game hunting in Africa instead? Treat ourselves to a nice vacation sometime?"

Harley met the Joker's eye across the room, and he shook his head slowly, his dark eyes glowing, making her chest ache.

"Whatever this _thing_ between you two is, it's a little road bump between… just about everything I want," Roman explained. "So instead of leaving you _lingering_ over him, I'm just going to take him out of the equation completely so we can get started on you."

"Roman," Harley tried to reason with him, her voice strained. " _Please_ don't."

"Don't beg, Harley," Roman made a face as he retrieved the scalpel from its case. "It doesn't suit you."

Harley looked between the scalpel and the Joker, and she started to panic in earnest, yanking on the manacles, tentatively at first, and then harder, using her whole body to pull on the chains as they rattled against the stone wall.

"Now, J, it did occur to me that a bullet to the head would be easiest, but it's a little too sudden," Roman explained, gesturing to Harley. "I need her to accept that you're gone, and to do that she needs to see you die slowly…" He shot Harley a smirk. "So it really sinks in."

The Joker growled behind the duct tape covering his mouth.

"See, wild dog," Roman glanced at Harley again, and she scowled back at him, the manacles rubbing her wrists raw as she fought against them. "As I'm sure you know, there are a lot of factors to take into consideration in a situation like this. Do you take hours, do you take days… Are you forcing someone to accept they're nothing but a hunk of meat, or are you using them to traumatize someone else. Or are you just… taking something away."

Roman turned to Harley, his eyes cold.

"Blood and gore don't affect you," he predicted, looking at her arms, her biceps standing out as she yanked on her restraints harder. "And it might just make your will stronger if his death is too… _messy_." He stopped in front of her, forcing her to meet his eye, offering her a small smile. "This should be an emotional moment for you, Harley, where you accept he's gone. Then we can work on realizing how you're nothing like him, and didn't want him anyway."

He reached up to touch her face, but Harley flinched away.

"Roman," she said, her voice wavering, panic making her head spin. "If you kill him, I will never forgive you. I will _never_ forget."

"You're feeling vulnerable, I understand," Roman laid a hand over his heart. "Let me tell you something about me, okay? I want us to be vulnerable in front of each other, and this is an personal moment for both of us."

Harley stopped struggling against her restraints, feeling completely lost, and more afraid than she could ever remember feeling before.

"You and I both grew up without families," Roman continued, more solemnly. "My father died when I was twelve, and my mother slit her wrists when I was fourteen."

He said it without emotion, like it had happened to someone else.

"My father was a mistake, but my mother… She wanted to die. _Badly_."

Roman looked down at the tomb he'd so casually thrown his jacket over, and Harley knew instinctively that his mother's body was rotting inside it.

"She cut her wrists so deeply the arteries severed, and she bled to death within… minutes." He looked at Harley, his eyes lifeless. "That's not what we're aiming for here."

He strolled back to the Joker, who glared at him resentfully, like there wasn't a knife sticking out of his side.

Harley couldn't think of a single thing to say, a single argument to make. She _did_ feel vulnerable, and this _did_ feel personal, and when combined with those moments with Black Mask, when she'd felt so compelled by him, she had to accept that Roman was right—that he could do this to her. That he was in control, and she was powerless.

That she had overplayed her hand, and lost.

"I don't know how long it will take, or how creative I'll have to be, but you will submit." Roman turned his eyes on Harley fully, dark and _vacant_. Nothing like the Joker, who was full of life. "They always do."

He pivoted back to the Joker and lifted the scalpel to his wrist, cutting a deep incision up his forearm in one sharp, deliberate motion.

"No!" Harley shrieked, shocked as she watched blood leap from the wound, the artery perfectly sliced open.

The Joker turned to stare at it like he was bewildered by what his body was doing, the blood streaming down his arm pouring impossibly fast the way only fatal injuries did.

Harley wailed something incoherent, her eyes stinging as panic flooded her brain like white noise.

"Unfortunately," Roman circled to the Joker's other side. "It's a yes from me, and that's all that matters here."

The Joker seemed to lurch to life suddenly, snarling and trying to wrench away. But it was no good. The way he was tied up made it impossible, and despite the snarling and scowling and twitching, Roman still slashed his other wrist neatly, another spurt of blood telling Harley he'd sliced that artery open too.

 _"Stop!"_ Harley shrieked, her voice pitching higher.

The Joker was blinking hard, his eyes darting around the crypt, searching for some means of escape. Willing that opportunity to arise at the last moment like it always did.

"It's done now," Roman shrugged, watching the blood stream down the Joker's arms, his chest, his stomach, soaking the top of his tuxedo trousers. "Does the blood bother you?" Roman frowned at Harley. "I would think you'd be used to it, but it's different when it's yours. It bothered Victor too."

Harley didn't respond, she felt incapable of speech, numb, helpless, the sheer amount of blood leaving the Joker's body too much proof of what was about to happen even if her brain wouldn't accept it.

Then she saw his eyelids droop, his head bob, getting weak.

He was going to die.

"No… no-no-no-no-no-no," Harley chanted, struggling against the manacles as adrenaline and fear surged through her fresh, making her brain fuzzy, making her vision blur and turn red, like blood released in the bath. "No, NO, NO! _NO! NO!_ "

Her voice pitch higher into a scream as she flailed against her restraints, desperate to get free so she could get to him, the weak bobbing of his head stoking an awful, horrible pain deep in her heart.

"Tears, that's interesting," Roman observed mildly. "I wouldn't have expected that."

 _"YOU SONOFABITCH!_ " Harley screamed hoarsely, thrashing against the manacles, making Roman's eyes widen. "I'LL KILL YOU! _I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"_

Her face grew hot and sticky as tears streamed down her cheeks, but through them, she could see the Joker shaking his head, his eyes narrowed, trying to communicate with her. Telling her, she realized, not to give in to this _asshole_. She could hear his voice as clear as day. He didn't want her to _submit_.

 _" **NO!** " _Harley howled raggedly, bursting into gut-wrenching sobs as she tried to rip the manacles off the wall, nearly pulling her arms out of the socket.

"Really?" Roman lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "All this, for him?

Harley screamed brokenly, rage and grief throbbing through her veins as she thrashed against the wall, feeling utterly helpless. She saw the Joker's head fall forward against his chest and she released a sound so wild and unhinged Roman took a step back.

"I suppose this is good," he mused. "Getting it out of your system."

 _"I'LL TEAR YOU APART!"_ She wailed, her throat aching as her voice sank into a strangled register. _"I'LL RIP YOUR HEAD OFF YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU I'LL—"_

Roman was frowning at her thoughtfully, considering her distress.

Then suddenly, a stool crashed into the side of his head, sending him tumbling to the floor, cutting off Harley's screams.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, blinking past the tears as she realized that standing there, holding the stool with his eyes wide, was Ed.

* * *

**A/N: DEEP BREATHS, PEOPLE! Deep breaths! It's all going to be okay! Ed is here...!**

**Full disclosure, next week is an emotional clusterfuck as they race to save the Joker's life, but it's less disturbing... just possibly more upsetting. It'll be okay!**

**And hey, we got a trope! Roman shares his evil plan like a Bond villain! That's pretty funny right?**

**And Dinah getting Martha Wayne's pearls — soooooo tropey.**

**And the fake wedding rings! It's fluffy trope city! It literally makes me cringe, but screw it.**

**And how about that reveal that Samantha was Circe... oooh, boy.**

**On a more serious note, I am hyper aware that going down a "Roman uses his mother's suicide as a footnote to kill the Joker in a deeply personal way as a first step toward brainwashing Harlry" is very _very_ dark. We explore some dark spaces in this series, but they rarely fall into the category of "triggering" like this might. I hope anyone feeling vulnerable or sad will come talk to me/us on tumblr or in the comments below! **

**This is the end of the dark, angsty part 1. It's not 100% smooth sailing from here on out but there are plenty of buddy-adventure-bickering, J's POV, sex (sex from J's POV!), and lolz (and shopping!) to come. But yeah, things will have to get worse before they get better, especially Harley's shaken confidence—which she will get back tenfold, and become the most badass version of herself we've seen yet.**

**I get a LOT of asks about Harley and the Joker dying, and how they would each react to that. This and the next chapter should suitably answer at least some of your questions.**

**_Next: Part 2 - Flame_ **

**Please review (wince) C'mon lurkers, I'm talking to you too—let it all out, my loves xo**


	14. Chapter 14

_Theme: Kaledia - '99 Luftballons' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/-3gyZtJCjnc)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/04fIB3pVTEEoPOGf2Cly3Q?si=xwnlImnPQNiqVQ1XpcR3NA))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

14.

* * *

Ed pressed the button for the elevator leading into the Sionis family crypt. He'd found it plenty creepy when Roman invited him down there earlier in the evening, giving Ed an opening to betray Harley and the Joker. In return, Roman removed the mask, revealing his identity to show his appreciation. But it wasn't _quite_ as exciting as Ed had hoped or Roman seemed to think it was. Ed already knew Roman was Black Mask thanks to Harley, ruining the surprise. And _also…_ as signs of appreciation went, it was kind of a lame one.

Another letdown.

Roman also did not ask Ed to join the False Face Society, which Ed suspected he _had_ done for the Scarecrow, putting Ed below Crane in the pecking order. And from what he knew about Crane, that was like being forced to sit at the _reject_ table. Or worse than the reject table. Crane was at the reject table, so _Ed_ was eating lunch in the history teacher's classroom.

Well, _F you_ , BM.

_Roman._

So when Ed returned to the Sionis crypt, it was to demand some respect, or maybe kill Roman, or maybe just steal something to make him realize Ed was not someone to be treated like _trash_. He needed to do _something_ to escape the... _mehhh_.

Ed stepped into the elevator, sighing as he searched for that little wiggle of excitement over doing something _naughty_ , but it wasn't there. There was this kind of… _damp_ feeling. Like soggy toast. Or a squishy candy heart. He couldn't put a name on it, but he just wanted it to _stop_ , and he was pretty sure killing Roman or stealing his stuff would help.

But then the elevator started to descend into the crypt, and Ed started to hear _screaming_. And it got louder and louder, making that little wiggle of excitement spring free from the dampness, making shivers explode over his back and arms. The thrill that something was going to _happen_ , the anticipation of something new, something _interesting_.

The elevator doors opened, and Ed's eyes widened at the scene he was greeted with.

On one wall, the Joker was handcuffed to an iron loop sticking out from the ceiling, his feet limp on the stone floor, his ankles bound with rope. His chin was against his bare chest and he was covered in blood… _Oh_ , because he was bleeding from his _wrists._ Ed's eyes widened when he saw the weak spurts of blood.

Then directly across from the Joker, manacled to the wall, was Harley, the source of the screaming.

"YOU SONOFABITCH! I'LL KILL YOU! _I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"_

Roman was standing in front of her, a knife in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking quite fetching actually. But that wasn't important, Ed told himself as he tried to decide what to do.

Then Harley made a really bad sound—like she was _dying_. Like something was trying to climb out of her, something _horrible_. She sounded like she was in the most terrible kind of pain. And she was crying. It made Ed shudder. Crying always made him cringe, but when it was paired with this violent, wrathful pain, it really _did_ something to him.

It sure wasn't boring.

Roman said something asinine to her, making her wail again, when Ed spotted a stool beside the Joker. Still unsure what he was doing, he crept toward it, squinting at the Joker's face as he passed him. He was so pale. His skin was almost white.

Oh yeah, he was gonna die if Ed didn't do something.

And a world without the Joker would be _super_ boring.

Ed picked up the stool and stood behind Roman, chewing his bottom lip as he thought about the Scarecrow again.

Ed was _not_ eating lunch with the history teacher.

He swung the stool at the side of Roman's head, sending him careening to the floor.

Harley's screaming stopped, her eyes widening as she stared at Ed. Usually, he would have luxuriated in that surprise, but this time it all felt so _unreal._ Like he was floating through a moment.

Her eyes darted down to Roman.

"Hit him again!" she squealed, and Ed obediently swung the stool at Roman's head before he could get to his knees. "Again!" Harley screamed, and Ed did it again, feeling like he was an extension of her, like his arms and legs hers to control.

Roman stopped moving, and for a few seconds there was just the sound of Harley panting hysterically.

"Get the keys!" she yelped, and Ed quickly ducked down to palm Roman's pants pockets, rolling him onto his back and finding two sets in his front pocket, one old and creaky looking, the other for modern handcuffs.

His heart pounding in his neck, Ed rushed up to Harley and used the old iron ones to unlock the manacles around her wrists and ankles, which were red and raw from where she'd been trying to get free.

"Hurry _, hurry_!" she insisted, her voice breaking.

Oh, it sounded so _painful_.

Once she was free, she bolted across the crypt to the Joker.

"Get him down!" she shrieked to Ed, who staggered after her and reached up to unlock the handcuffs as she threw herself at the Joker's feet.

She pulled a knife out of his ribs—which Ed hadn't even noticed until then—and she started sawing through the rope binding his feet to the floor, her breath hitching with the occasional sob. She cut the rope just as Ed got the handcuffs unlocked, and without his arms bound above his head, the Joker slumped down. Ed caught him under the armpits and lowered him to the stone floor, then stepped back, out of Harley's way as she clambered on top of him, patting his face as his head lolled back on the rocky floor.

"J," she hiccupped, her voice watery. She held the Joker's face in her hands and slapped him, hard. "J, wake up!" she demanded, a sob getting stuck in her throat. _"Jack!"_

_…_ _Jack?_

Ed stood back, blinking stupidly, that dampness roaring back in, making his brain feel mushy as he watched Harley break down into sobs as she tried to wake the Joker up. Calling him _J_ and _Jack_ and getting progressively more desperate.

She whipped around to look up at Ed, her face red and blotchy.

"Give me your belt!" she screeched, and Ed quickly yanked his belt off, seeing she'd already tied the Joker's around one of his arms like a tourniquet.

His tongue like lead in his mouth, Ed offered her his belt. She ripped it out of his hands, sniffing and panting and trying to hold it together as she secured it around the Joker's bloodied bicep.

There was so much blood. Ed had never stabbed a person before, only shot them, and strangled them two or three times. He wasn't a big fan of blood. It was messy and ruined things—it took _so_ much dry cleaning to get it out—and torture seemed kind of excessive when you could just _pay_ people. But right now, he found himself fascinated by it. How could that much blood come out of one man?

The Joker was just a man, after all.

A man named _Jack_ , apparently.

Oooooh, _boy_.

Harley hauled the Joker up to sitting and looped one of his arms over her shoulders. Ed could see his eyelids were fluttering, not quite dead yet though he seemed to be struggling to speak or keep his head up. His face was white, and black circles were forming around his eyes. Not good.

Harley looked up at Ed, her blue eyes wide and afraid.

 _"_ _Help me!"_ she pleaded, her voice cracking, tears running down her cheeks, and after stalling a moment, his brain filled with nothing but white noise, Ed jumped to action, bowing down to grab the Joker's other arm and hauling him up.

They carried him to the elevator, Harley panting and fighting back sobs, making awful, painful sounds. Sounds Ed had never heard a person make before. Sounds that scared him and made his bowels clench.

As they staggered into the elevator, Ed took one last look at Roman, lying prone on the floor. Not dead, not done.

 _F you BM_ , he thought, and jabbed the button to make the doors close.

The elevator shot upwards, and Harley started heaving desperately to stave off sobs, trying to pull herself together so she could get through this and save the man she quite obviously loved. She was crying into the Joker's bare, blood-streaked shoulder, palming his face and trying to hold his head up—calling him _J_ and _Jack_ in this watery sobby voice.

He wasn't unconscious, but he was close to it.

Ed wondered if he was only staying awake for her.

They burst out of the elevator and stumbled out of the mausoleum and through the cemetery, Harley wheezing as they headed for the main road. Ed had no idea what she was planning on doing. They couldn't exactly call an Uber, and even with the makeshift tourniquets, the Joker was still bleeding. Ed's jacket was nearly soaked through on one side. How long could a person bleed like this before they died?

"I need—I need—I need," Harley panted, her voice shaking as she frantically looked up and down the country road. To the right was Wayne Manor, its lights shining in the darkness. To the left, the lights of Gotham City. "A knife, a gun, I need…"

Ed stared at her, his arms straining with the Joker's weight sagging between them. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to react. He just knew he couldn't leave her, even if this was futile, and the Joker was probably going to die. Ed also knew this could end badly for him, but he _couldn't_ leave her.

Then a car was coming up the road toward them, a Mercedes Sedan—S Class, bulky and expensive, not very chic—its headlights glowing in the darkness.

"Hold him!" Harley shrieked at Ed, her eyes wild.

She shrugged off the Joker, letting him sway into Ed's arms, his face flopping forward against Ed's shoulder.

"Ohhh…" Ed murmured, not sure what else to do but pat the Joker's back hesitantly, a show of comfort for a dying man. His skin was getting cold. "Shh," Ed whispered, watching Harley duck down, and pick up something then sprint out into the road, waving her arms as the car approached, her fancy blood-soaked dress making it screech to a stop before the driver jumped out.

"Help me! _Help me!_ " Harley wailed, staggering up to the man.

"Oh my God!" the man gasped, shocked by her. "What happened? Do you—"

Harley launched herself at him with an animalistic roar, and there was a _CRACK_ through the darkness. Ed realized she'd hit the man over the head with a rock. He stumbled against the car and she hit him again, and again, until he was on his back on the street, twitching. Then she hit him three more times, screaming in wild abandon, screaming out her grief and desperation before she jumped up and ran back to Ed, pulling the Joker's arm back around her neck and leading them over to the car.

She threw open one of the backdoors and they lowered the Joker in, then Ed ran around to the other side and pulled him across the back seat, his body completely limp now. It didn't look like he was awake anymore. Once his feet were in, Harley climbed on top of him.

"Give me your jacket!" she screeched at Ed, who quickly shucked his jacket and handed it to her so she could try to staunch the bleeding, keeping the Joker's arms over his head. "Close the door - get in the front seat - _DRIVE_!" she instructed, hysterical even though she was _trying_ to keep it together.

Ed obediently did everything she told him, jumping behind the wheel, turning the car around to head back to Gotham, running over the car's owner twice in the process, killing him if he wasn't already dead from the head trauma.

"Jack," Harley whined. "Jack, _please."_

"Um," Ed managed to find his voice as he sped down the country road, heading for the bridge back to Gotham. "Um, where am I going?"

"Do you have a phone?" Harley gasped, her voice hitching, and when Ed confirmed he did, she recited a number to him twice, and he had to ask her for it a third time before it started ringing.

"Who's this," a sullen voice demanded, a video game making _pew! pew! pew!_ sounds in the background.

"Uhhh…" Ed faltered.

Harley had picked up screaming 'J' and 'Jack' and pleading with him to stay awake, her voice making Ed's ears ring.

"What the fuck!" the sullen voice snapped, obviously hearing her. "Who is this?"

"Um, hey, my name's Ed," Ed said awkwardly, trying to block out Harley's screams so he could concentrate. "I'm um, with Harley and well, the Joker and uh… he's in pretty bad shape."

"Bad _shape_?" the voice demanded, obviously concerned. "What kinda bad shape?"

"Like uh… the bleeding to death kind," Ed chuckled weakly, wincing. "So, Harley seemed to think—"

 _"_ _Lee Thompkins!"_ Harley screamed from the backseat. "Find Lee Thompkins!"

"Uh… Harley seems to think we need someone called Lee Thompkins?" Ed cringed. "I mean I think we need a doctor, probably—"

 _"_ _She is a fucking doctor!"_ Harley raged, her voice inhuman before she wailed miserably.

"Oh, Lee Thompkins is a doctor, I guess, and she…"

Over the phone, Ed could hear computer keys clacking, and the sullen voice breathing shakily, trying to keep calm, Ed guessed. He wasn't doing a very good job of himself, his heart hammering a million miles an hour. He couldn't remember feeling this way before—feeling so _much_ before—like the dampness was spreading and mutating the longer he listened to Harley's painful screams.

It was too _much_.

"Alright, I'm texting you Thompkins' cell and her home address," the sullen voice announced shakily. "And Ed, if you let him fucking die, I swear to God, I'm gonna come for you. You hear me? I will fuck you up _myself,_ got it!"

Ed's phone beeped with a text, and he quickly hung up on the sullen person and called the number blinking on his phone.

This time, a sleepy woman answered.

"Oh, um, hi there!" Ed tried for friendly and casual. "Is this Dr Thompkins?"

"Yes," she replied warily, sounding more alert.

"Oh, _great_ ," Ed gushed, beaming at the road in front of him to help him sound happy. "So, I'm with Harley Quinn at the moment, and I'm assuming you uh, have some kind of relationship with her because she seems to think you can help us…"

Harley screamed in the backseat, a horrible, blood-curdling scream like she was being ripped in half.

"Is she—is she okay?" Thompkins asked, concerned and confused.

"Uh, well, _she's_ fine, but um, her boyfriend's not in great shape," Ed explained awkwardly, pulling onto the freeway and laying his foot down on the gas again. "See uh, he's kinda… bleeding to death at the moment…"

"You have to go to a hospital," Thompkins said firmly, fully awake. "Right now."

"Yeah… I don't think Harley's gonna go for that," Ed sighed, and he paused to let Thompkins hear Harley's howling—"Jack!. _.. Jack!... JACK!"—_ "She seems to think you're the one to fix him up and I'm pretty sure if you _don't_ help us and he dies, well, ya know she's probably gonna do something real bad." He winced at the pathetic threat. "And you know, you're a doctor so you're sort of supposed to help."

"I… well… what exactly does she want me to _do_?" Thompkins demanded.

"Um, I've got your address sooooo maybe we could like, swing by?" Ed tried.

"Swing _by?_ " Thompkins snapped incredulously. "He's bleeding to death and you want to swing by my apartment? I can't stop blood loss with a needle and thread, Ed, you need plasma, adrenaline, medical supplies…"

"Harley, she says we need medical supplies," Ed called into the back seat.

"Texas Joe's. Under—under the east side of the Downtown bridge," Harley sobbed weakly. "He'll have everything."

" _So_ , good news," Ed relayed to Thompkins in a little sing-song voice, trying to stay upbeat when Harley sounded like the world was ending. "Sounds like we can pick up some stuff from a guy Harley knows. Sooooo wanna like, text me a grocery list and then we'll head over your way? Haha… uh… yeah... so is that okay? Sorry, this is soooo awkward..."

There was a long pause, and then Thompkins said, "Yes. Hurry up."

"Good news," Ed called to Harley, who didn't respond.

Then he heard it.

"Shh… shh… shh…," the Joker's raspy voice so quiet and weak it was almost inaudible over the sound of the car's engine while Harley sniffled and hiccupped.

"Please," she whined quietly, her voice cracking like her heart was breaking. "Stay with me, _please_."

Ed's throat felt thick as he laid his foot down on the gas, the arrow on the speedometer swinging up as he headed Downtown.

He was pretty sure Harley would tell him if the Joker died back there, or maybe she would just explode, but she spent the next ten minutes sniffing and pleading quietly, murmuring instead of screaming. Maybe because she'd screamed herself hoarse, maybe because she was giving up. Who could say? But when they reached Texas Joe's, Ed stomped down on the brake, so the car squealed to a stop, and she was panting throatily like she was building herself up for something.

Thompkins texted Ed a list, a long list of stuff he'd never heard of before, and Harley sent him into the body shop, entrusting him to get the supplies needed to save the Joker's life. There was a man with rosy cheeks and a long white beard, who kind of looked like a dirty Coca-Cola Santa Claus. His eyes widened when he saw Ed, who was covered in the Joker's blood. It was smeared down his cheek and covering his hands, his Armani suit and Helmut Lang shirt ruined, his hair a mess.

Texas Joe pulled a pistol, prompting Ed to throw his hands up.

"Hey there! Sorry for the intrusion, don't mind me," he chirped, trying to be nice and friendly and disarming which wasn't really working. "So, I've kinda got a medical emergency on my hands," he explained awkwardly, edging closer to the Santa man, who was probably Texas Joe. "And I heard you could help me…"

Santa-man/Texas Joe pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, so Ed went all in. For _Harley's_ sake.

"Please help me," he begged, letting his eyes fill with tears, playing the empathy card. The tears felt foreign in his eyes, but they felt good too, like releasing the pressure that had been building since he stepped foot in that crypt to Harley's screaming. "Please," he croaked, imitating Harley's voice and the way she'd been pleading with the Joker. "I can't lose them," he added, sniffling as tears started running down his cheeks.

Texas Joe hesitated, then set his pistol on a workbench, nodding.

"Okay," he agreed. "What do you need?"

It took about ten minutes for Texas Joe to pull everything together into a big duffle bag. Add that onto the twenty minutes it took to get to the body shop once they jacked the car, and the five to get through the cemetery, plus at least another five of the Joker bleeding before Ed had stepped in… they were edging onto forty-or-so minutes of him bleeding out. Ed didn't know how long it took to bleed to death, but he was pretty sure the Joker didn't have much longer.

Ed slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and headed back to the car with Texas Joe on his heels when Harley appeared in their path. Her eyes were red and swollen— _wild_. She looked like the humanity had been drained out of her, leaving an animal or just a killer behind. She had the revolver Texas Joe set aside in her hand, and without blinking she shot Joe in the head then pivoted to Ed, who threw up his hands.

"Wait, I wanna help!" he insisted. "You can't carry him on your own."

Her shoulders heaved for a moment as she considered what he was saying.

"Your phone," she snapped raggedly. "Throw it on the floor."

Ed fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket—a Vertu Signature Touch, very expensive, very ugly, very covered in the Joker's blood—and tossed it on the floor. To Ed's surprise she shot the phone twice, then spun on her heel and stormed back to the car, throwing herself into the back, clambering on top of the Joker again.

He had to assume it was something to do with not being tracked, which made Ed feel _really_ good because that meant she trusted _him_. He dove behind the wheel, tossing the duffle bag of supplies in the passenger seat, feeling a sense of purpose and urgency as he listened to Harley whisper the Joker's name—his real name.

_Wow._

She was the only one who knew his name. The only one close enough to the monster to know the truth.

And now Ed knew it too.

He headed Uptown, trying to be careful and not draw attention, but Harley's whimpering in the back started up again, and soon she broke down into sobs, long, breathless, _painful_ sobs.

"Is he okay?" Ed demanded, not wanting to speed because if they got pulled over, that was definitely the end of this rescue mission.

"He's not waking up," Harley croaked despondently. "His heartbeat is so slow."

"Well, do you wanna like, stab him with an adrenaline needle or something?" Ed suggested, trying to be helpful. "You know, like in Pulp Fiction?"

But she didn't answer. She just kept crying quietly and murmuring soft things Ed couldn't make out. So, he sighed heavily and concentrated on driving, trying to focus on the urgency and a sense of purpose instead of the horrible _dampness_.

He wondered if he would ever feel the way Harley felt about the Joker about someone.

Maybe it was only reserved for them.

"Just keep talking to him," he suggested. "We're Uptown, we're almost there."

She sucked in a shuddering breath.

Lee Thompkins lived in a townhouse around the corner from the nice side of Robinson Park, where it was all clean and classy and full of doctors and lawyers. The townhouses had been split into apartments, and hers was on the top floor. She was waiting outside with a sheet when they pulled up. She was probably fifty, with warm brown eyes and thick black hair, a fashionable grey streak running through the front, wearing athleisure-wear and no makeup.

Ed wondered what one was supposed to wear for moments like this. When terrorists showed up on your doorstep in need of medical assistance. Athleisure-wear seemed appropriate, he decided.

It was only then that he had the foresight to wonder who this woman was, and how Harley knew her. How the hell could they trust that the cops weren't right around the corner? Ready to pounce once the Joker was stabilized, if not sooner. And all of this made Ed hesitate to get out of the car as Harley scrambled out and exchanged a few sharp words with Thompkins.

Ed considered taking off, getting the hell out of there before he could get sucked into something awful, and really, _really_ boring.

Like _prison_.

"Ed!" Harley hissed.

But Ed already knew he was going to help. He _wanted_ to stick around. How _weird_.

So, he got out of the car and helped Harley and Thompkins hoist the Joker onto the sheet, a makeshift gurney so they could get him up the front steps, Ed doing the brunt of the carrying because he was the strongest. There was a small elevator, only big enough for a wheelchair, which they packed the Joker into with Harley, while Ed and Thompkins raced up two flights of stairs, waiting for them at the top.

When the elevator doors opened, Harley looked up at them, her eyes wide and horrified.

"I don't think he's breathing," she gasped, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Get him in here," Thompkins snapped, her voice more authoritative now. "Come on, Harley, get up!"

Harley struggled to her feet and they dragged the Joker into the apartment, leaving two long streaks of blood on the carpet outside the front door. It was all happening so fast and so slow at the same time, Ed could hardly keep up.

It was a small apartment, but he couldn't see any of the details. It was like a black hole with a kitchen table in the center of it, which Thompkins instructed them to hoist the Joker up onto, her voice strong and confident.

She ripped into Texas Joe's bag of medical supplies, laying them out on her kitchen counter, plastic bags of clear liquid and blood and needles and tubes and all kinds of other things. She snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves, glancing at Harley, who was at the head of the table beside the Joker, her bloodied hands pulling his hair as she squatted down to rub her face against his, and started sobbing all over again.

He wasn't moving at all, not responding. His face was whiter than it had been earlier, chalky and bloodless, his eyes two black circles, Harley's bloody handprints smeared over his scars. Just like his warpaint but somehow much more human.

Wasn't that funny? That he was most human as he was about to die?

_I have no end_

_I am the end of all that begins_

_What am I?_

Thompkins looked at Ed, her expression grim.

"Let me see your hands," she demanded.

Ed held up his hands, which were remarkably stable considering his heart was thundering a thousand miles a minute, and his head was spinning, dizzy from adrenaline and the draining sounds of Harley's grief.

Thompkins shoved a pair of latex gloves at him, announced that he was assisting her, and told him to grab things and hold things as she marched up to the Joker and pulled his arms up over his head.

"Hold them up," she instructed Harley, who did as she was told, but buried her face in the Joker's hair and cried quietly.

Thompkins took the Joker's pulse at his throat, her expression hardening before she started moving _fast_.

"He's in hypovolemic shock," she announced, ripping the packaging off a big plastic syringe filled with yellow liquid and shoving it at Ed. "And his heart is going to give out soon," she added, ripping into more packaging, producing a silver coil and a giant needle and other mean-looking things.

Harley sobbed weakly. Like she couldn't carry on.

Maybe she thought she couldn't without him.

Thompkins did some kind of medical trickery, inserting a big needle then the coil and then tubes straight into the Joker's chest, like an IV but bigger and scarier, straight into one of the arteries connected to his heart.

" _Ed_ ," she snapped, prompting Ed to pass her the syringe of yellow liquid, entranced, and having no idea what was going to happen next.

She plunged the syrupy substance into the Joker's chest, and Ed guessed this was probably what the writers of _Pulp Fiction_ had been going for, something that should have been exciting to see in real life, but he was too drained by now.

Also, the Joker didn't jump off the table and run around the room, screaming like Uma Thurman.

Let down.

Like so many things in life.

"Ed, grab me two bags of blood," Thompkins instructed as she taped off the IV.

Ed quickly did what he was told while Thompkins whispered something kind to Harley, lowering the Joker's arms back down to his sides and removing the belts. Ed helped her get an IV in each of his arms at the elbow, his forearms still bleeding from deep, clean cuts.

How much blood could one person lose?

"He's breathing," Harley whispered as Thompkins instructed Ed to hold the bags up before she started on his arms, suturing them shut.

"Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing," she said, more to herself than them. "The arteries are lacerated but not severed."

"What does that mean?" Ed frowned, his eyes drifting to Harley, who was swaying weakly like she was going to pass out.

"It means they wanted him to die slowly," Thompkins explained. "But it also means I might be able to save him."

"Might?" Ed's eyebrows rose. "I mean, didn't you already do that?"

Thompkins glanced at Ed and inclined her head toward Harley, whose eyes were rolling as she cried brokenly. When Ed looked at Thompkins again, they silently agreed that Harley was probably not in any state to hear the truth about how likely the Joker was to survive this.

"Maybe," Thompkins admitted, her voice low so only Ed could hear her. "We'll get some blood and fluids into him and wrap him up, so he doesn't get hypothermia, and see how he's doing in a few hours. It depends on how long he stopped breathing; how long oxygen wasn't getting to his brain..."

"So, he could be like…" Ed looked at the Joker's white face, his eyes widening. "He could be like, _brain_ dead?" he hissed at Thompkins.

She shot him a warning look and inclined her head to Harley again.

Ed tried to get Harley to drink some water while Thompkins continued to work, but she shoved him away, returning to her earlier position of pressing her face against the Joker's cheek while she pulled his hair, one of her hands lying flat against his neck, feeling his pulse, and Ed could hear her whispering again.

" _Jack…_ "

Ed took a step back, not having anything else to contribute as Thompkins worked on the Joker's arms and then the stab wound. It was all so _messy_.

Then Harley got shakily to her feet and staggered past Ed into a small kitchen, which he was able to take note of then, a counter separating it from the living room and a dining table. It was a nice little apartment. Cute and homey. A pale blue crocheted blanket on the couch, a few ferns, quite a lot of Ikea, and more throw pillows than you could shake a stick at. Now would be the time to take off, Ed realized, unsure what else he was supposed to do, but he could still feel himself _lingering_.

Then he heard a sound behind him in the kitchen and turned around to see Harley standing there, her expression so dark he took a step back. She had a skillet in her hand—Le Creuset, cast iron, Marseille blue enamel, very expensive, very chic—and Ed's eyes widened as she swung it at his head.

And then it all went dark.

* * *

Lonnie wasn't sure what the fuck he was supposed to do, but hours after he spoke to 'Ed,' he could still hear Harley screaming in his ear.

She'd sounded like someone was dying. Like _J_ was dying. Bleeding to death if this Ed dude was to be believed.

So, what the fuck was _Lonnie_ supposed to do about it?

He sat at his desk, staring blindly at the game paused on his monitor, and eventually plucked up the energy to roll a joint. He fell on one of the couches in the living room and got stoned, which helped quiet the memory of Harley's panicked shrieking. He shuffled into the kitchen, snacking and picking at leftovers, helping himself to a soda. He sat back down at his desk, did a line of BO, tried to play his game, lost interest and started pacing, smoked another joint.

Then finally, with the blue light of dawn approaching, Lonnie got a text from Harley. Thank fuck.

 _Warehouse ASAP_ was all it read.

J had been very, _very_ clear that Lonnie wasn't to leave the honeymoon suite— not for _anything_. He didn't tell Lonnie why, and Lonnie didn't care enough to guess. He just did what he was told.

But if J was hurt and needed him, Lonnie sure as shit wasn't going to say no or sit on his ass.

He took the private elevator down to the garage and considered the purple Lamborghini he'd purchased himself for the sake of blending in. It was a grotesque homage to late-stage capitalism, perfect for zipping around Midtown and running errands alongside all the rich assholes. But Harley wanted Lonnie to meet them at the Narrows warehouse where they'd been keeping Crane, which made this a trip for his well-loved 2004 Honda Civic.

Lonnie smoked another joint on the drive, trying to stay calm. He could only hope Harley had calmed the fuck down so he wouldn't have to deal with her whining on top of whatever else was going down.

When he reached the warehouse they'd been keeping Crane at, he parked out front and raced up the stairs to the loft.

But once Lonnie threw open the loft's sliding steel door, he immediately knew he'd fucked up—that he'd been played.

Crane was there, waiting on the other side of the door, that fucking traitor. He was wearing the Scarecrow mask, and beside him stood a man in a suit, with a black mask wrapping around his entire head like a skull.

Lonnie looked between them, then made to bolt, but two massive thugs appeared behind him, blocking his path.

"Hello, Lonnie," the black mask said in a low electronic purr, his voice modified. "Or should I call you… _Anarky_."

Then the Scarecrow lifted his arm, wielding the canister Lonnie helped that back-stabbing motherfucker reconstruct, and gassed Lonnie right in the face.

The Scarecrow mask contorted into a horrifying face from hell, and Lonnie started to scream.

* * *

**A/N: *hides under the bed***

**That's the shortest chapter I've ever published, and it has almost zero resolution after last week's dire ending. I'm sorry.  
**

**To make it up to you, I'll post some fluffy stuff on my[Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/knit-wear-it) this week. You can already find Harley & the Joker's first attempts at phone sex [here,](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/631230094279639041/i-vote-please-can-we-see-the-origins-of-greedy) and the more sucessfull second attempt [here.](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/631313716369080320/phone-sex) I've got some other domestic-ness coming like 'Harley & the Joker go Through US Customs' and other prompts. Asks are always open!  
**

**It felt like a risk to let Harley call the Joker 'Jack' here, but she knows that's his given name, and she's desperate to keep him awake… it's what she would do and speaks to her desperation. But it almost feels like by putting it in writing, I've peeled some profound layer away from him, and it's satisfying? I don't know. She isn't gonna start calling him Jack though, that's not happening.**

**Disclaimer:** **it is far easier to research how to run the mob than how to treat or recover from hypovolemic shock.** **I think it's sellable, which is better than what Hollywood aims for sometimes. I** **f there are any medical professionals reading and I got it wrong… Sorry, I tried!**

**_Next week: The Joker recovers at Lee Thompkins' apartment, and Harley learns Black Mask has taken Lonnie._ **

**We are gonna get to see a whole new side of Harley & J over the coming chapters.**

**Please review or comment! I personally find this chapter more upsetting than last week...**

**xo**


	15. Chapter 15

_Theme: Philip Glass - 'Opening' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/V2ZU71Bqvko)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/1QmhkjuUlosROqKk59sBSK?si=ZpveGsqDRd-0MR9TaG-EIA))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

15.

* * *

The first time the Joker thought he was going to die, it hadn't been fear he felt at the point of losing consciousness, but curiosity. Down a back alley with his face cut open, not quite sure if he was _really_ dying, but also not sure that he _wasn't_. A little luck and a strong constitution got him through it. Then the second time, it hadn't been curiosity so much as… _irritation_. He'd known if he survived that gunshot wound to the chest, he would have to recover from it too, and as he'd learned the first time, there was nothing as annoying as being a prisoner to your own physical weakness. And it had taken much, _much_ longer to recuperate from that bullet than it took his face to heal.

This third time was different. As he'd lost consciousness, possibly for the very last time, there had been irritation again, gut-twisting frustration over the subsequent recovery period that would come if he survived. But this time he hadn't been alone. As the world faded around him, hazy and dark, the threat of death very real as his body shut down piece by piece, Harley had been there, shrieking his name. Her pain, which was visceral and _violent_ , kept that dark haziness at bay until there wasn't enough blood left in his body to go on.

And when he woke up, she was still there.

The Joker fought to open his eyes, the room around him blurry and full of sunlight. So he wasn't in a hospital-ish room like last time, or a veterinarian's like the time before that. He was hot, wrapped up so tight he couldn't move, his arms pinned to his sides. Not with handcuffs, but because he was rolled up in blankets like a sausage. He tried to wiggle his fingers, weakly succeeding. The tendons in his arms moved, and he felt the needles in the crooks of his elbows, and he felt the stitches and bandages around his wrists and forearms, but notably, no pain.

_Morphine_.

So that was why the room was so blurry and warm.

"Mmm," he muttered unhappily, struggling past the opioid to find reality.

The bed shifted beside him, then Harley filled his entire field of vision. Just a flash of one big blue eye, and the tip of her button nose and a whole bunch of tangled platinum hair. She was pulling on his eyelids and cupping his face and gasping weakly like she was trying not to cry.

"J," she said breathlessly, smoothing sweaty hair back from his face. "J, can you hear me?"

"Mmhmm," he grumbled, trying to twist away from her. But confirming he could hear her only made her worse.

She released a relieved sob and pulled his hair hard enough to make his scalp tingle despite the morphine, and then her face was pressed against his, and she was crying so... _hard._

"Stopppid," he slurred gruffly, trying to wiggle free. But she was pinning him down, her body covering his over the blankets, her hands pulling on his face and hair, _relentless._

So he sighed and stopped struggling, giving up on fighting her and trying another tact.

"Sh, sh, sh," he hissed through his teeth, rolling his head toward her so their cheeks were pressed flush together. He could see the tip of her ear through his fluttering eyelids. He could smell her—sweet and rotten, and so familiar.

He felt her take a shuddering breath, her chest vibrating against his through the blankets. Then she shifted to the side so she wasn't squashing him, and she stopped crying. Her breathing evened out as she started smoothing his hair off his forehead, her hand luxuriously cold against his hot skin.

Much better.

So, a little reluctantly, the Joker let her comfort him, siphoning off some of his irritation over being weak and stuck in a bed. Letting her distract him with her touch, and her smell, and all the other familiar things that made her Harley.

* * *

Lee wasn't entirely sure how this had all happened.

After Harley knocked Ed out with a cast-iron skillet, Lee helped her drag him into the bathroom where she chained him to the bathtub with the handcuffs that had previously been dangling from one of the Joker's wrists. Harley wasn't armed, not with a gun or a knife, but the threat of what would happen if Lee didn't help had been implicit, as it had been throughout the entire course of the evening. Save the Joker, or you die. Keep this quiet, or you die. Help me tie up the Riddler, or you die.

And perhaps the threat wasn't as dangerous as it might have been were Harley not in such a state of distress, but Lee felt more compelled to help her than she did to turn her in. This was something she commonly felt in her day-to-day practice at the clinic, though it seemed unnecessarily pronounced given this was Harley Quinn, not just a junkie or drug dealer.

With Ed secured to the bathtub, Lee and Harley cleaned as much blood off the Joker as possible, then wrapped him in blankets and tucked him into Lee's bed with bags of blood, saline, morphine, and a broad-spectrum antibiotic hanging over the headboard, each of them slowly dripping into his body, pulling him away from death.

Harley looked on the verge of collapsing by then, which would have been about the time Lee should have called the police to inform them she had the Riddler chained up in her bathtub, the Joker mortally wounded in her bed, and Harley Quinn soon-to-be unconscious beside him. Instead, she guided Harley into the back room and opened a box of old clothes that hadn't fit Lee in well over a decade, finding Harley a set of pajamas so she could change out of her bloodied evening gown.

"Dr Thompkins," Harley looked up from the pajamas, her blue eyes alarmingly lifeless. "I'm going to need to tie you up in the bathroom too," she said. "I hope you understand."

Understanding that meant either she allowed herself to be tied up or she would be killed, Lee nodded and dug out an old box of Jim's things, including a pair of handcuffs. Harley hovered as Lee ducked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, and then joined Ed in the bathroom, lowering herself to the floor beside the radiator and handcuffing herself to it.

"Harley," Lee called before she turned away. "You can call me Lee,"

"Thank you," Harley said numbly, trying and failing to force a smile.

Lee was exhausted enough that even chained to the radiator, she managed to doze for a while. But only a few hours into captivity, Ed woke up, and he was livid.

"I can't believe this!" he huffed once he got past the initial disorientation that came with waking up after being knocked unconscious with a blunt object. "I saved her boyfriend's life and this is how she repays me? She's a monster! A _monster_! What kind of person ties another person up in a bathroom, huh!"

From there, Ed's complaining devolved into a loud, _violent_ tantrum. He screamed bloody murder trying to get Harley's attention. Lee's ears were ringing by the time the sun rose, and she could only thank God the old woman who lived downstairs had recently been moved to a retired living facility in the suburbs.

Perhaps she shouldn't have been relieved—she _should_ have wished someone could hear Ed's screaming and come to her rescue. There was a lot Lee recognized that she should have been doing or feeling. But at her age, she didn't concern herself with worrying about 'should' anymore.

Eventually, Ed wore himself out and settled for going through silent stretches interspersed with calling out to Harley cajolingly, trying to coax her from the bedroom.

None of it worked, and as the day stretched on, Ed and Lee both got some sleep, the emotional and physical stress taking its toll.

Then that afternoon, Harley appeared, looking wobbly and off-kilter.

"Harley!" Ed immediately squealed. "You have to let me out of here, please! I can't take it. The walls are closing in!"

"He's awake," Harley said to Lee, ignoring Ed completely.

"Is he brain dead?" Ed asked slyly.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Ed!" Harley snapped, her voice cracking.

"Ooh, what would you do, huh? Would you euthanize him? Pillow over the face? That's what he'd want _, right_?" Ed smirked. "But then you'd have to live with it. I bet you'd give up the whole femme fatal criminal lifestyle and just settle down somewhere and tend to your Joker-vegetable. Wipe his drool and change his diapers for him..."

" _Harley_ ," Lee interrupted, seeing the strain in her face as her arms started to tremble. She was on the verge of doing something impulsive and more than likely, _very_ violent. "Harley, do you want me to take a look at him?" Lee demanded, successfully drawing Harley's attention.

It was like staring into the eyes of a wild animal, like Harley's grasp on her own humanity was dangling. It was both terrifying and _hypnotizing_.

Eventually, Harley nodded and unlocked Lee from the radiator while Ed whined after them.

The Joker was awake but certainly looking like he'd seen better days. The dark circles around his eyes were faded but still there, and his skin was pale but not as white as it had been. His eyes were open but drooping, conscious but weak. He'd obviously recently been treated to something like a sponge bath, his hair damp and pushed off his face, a small pile of red-stained towels on the floor beside the bed.

Lee didn't know this man at all, not personally, but she suspected something like a sponge bath was worse than nearly bleeding to death in his book, the way he was grinding his jaw and glaring at the wall across from him speaking louder than he was currently able to.

"He doesn't want the morphine," Harley murmured as Lee checked his blood pressure and then his pupils, her pulse leaping when his dark eyes met hers resentfully.

"Your circulation looks good already," she announced once she'd examined his fingers and then his toes. The blood flow didn't immediately return to the capillaries when she pressed on them, but they weren't swollen. "Can you wiggle your fingers?"

The Joker stared at Lee dully for a long moment, then wiggled his fingers.

"Make a fist?"

His hand curled into a loose fist, and then after a moment, he squeezed it closed tighter, probably exerting too much energy.

"Good. It looks like there isn't any tendon damage, but try not to do too much with your hands," Lee instructed. He didn't seem to be listening so she stood from the bed and faced Harley. "For now, I'd say he needs to suck up a few more bags of blood and fluids before we try to get some food in him."

Harley nodded numbly, her face troubled.

"Do you have fresh sheets for the bed?" she asked, almost sweetly, making Lee's eyes widen.

"Yeah, um, yes," Lee nodded and rushed to the back room to grab a spare set of sheets, slightly bewildered by this request. And when she handed the sheets to Harley, Harley forced a strained but grateful smile and suggested Lee use the en suite bathroom to clean herself up.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," she heard the Joker pluck up the energy to grumble just before Lee shut the door.

As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, Lee could hear them arguing—apparently over the sheets—the Joker's voice low and annoyed while Harley was huffy and impatient. Even after she was dressed in fresh clothes, Lee stood behind the door, listening to them go back and forth, feeling bizarrely compelled by such a private moment between two such dangerous, colorful people as they went through something so human. She waited for them to lapse into silence, and when she exited the bathroom, the Joker appeared to be asleep and Harley was sitting up against the headboard, her arms folded on her knees, her expression grim.

She looked up at Lee, and Lee offered her a weak smile before slipping back out to the bathroom and chaining herself to the radiator again.

"Did you get to change your clothes!" Ed looked aghast. "She's only being nice to you so you'll do what she wants," he pointed out spitefully. "That's like her go-to move."

"I thought that might be why," Lee admitted awkwardly, unsure how to approach a conversation with the Riddler, who just seemed to want someone to talk _at_.

"How long is she going to keep us here?" he demanded imperiously. "What happens when we need to use the _bathroom,_ huh?"

"Hopefully, only until the Joker's better?" Lee guessed. It was obviously something she'd been wondering about too. "Once he's up and walking around I expect they'll want to go home, right?"

"I mean, they'll _probably_ kill you when he's better and they don't need you anymore," Ed shot her a knowing look. "Don't you think?"

"I'm trying to stay positive," Lee shrugged.

"They won't kill me," Ed announced, staring out the bathroom door like he was trying to see through the wall opposite where Harley and the Joker were sleeping. "They _definitely_ won't," he reassured himself.

"What makes you say that?" Lee asked warily. She didn't want to press her luck but she was eager to find out what

happened that led these three terrorists to her doorstep.

"She's had like, three opportunities to kill me, and she hasn't," Ed explained smugly. "Plus, I saved them both. _And_ I'm _interesting_." He glanced at Lee. "No offense."

"None taken," she replied, watching him sigh dramatically and shift around in the bathtub trying to get comfortable.

"So how long will it take him to get better?" Ed eventually asked, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

"Well," Lee glanced out the bathroom door. "Considering he stopped breathing and his heart almost stopped, I would normally say at least two weeks if I were being optimistic. But he's… doing really well already. So, maybe ten days."

"Ten days?" Ed gasped, his head falling back against the tiled bathroom wall with a _crack._ He whined and rubbed his head where he would probably have a lump the size of a goose's egg from getting hit with the frying pan.

"Optimistically," Lee said again.

"How are we supposed to stay here for over a week?" Ed hissed, blinking rapidly. "No, no way. We have got to get out of here, Lee, do you hear me? Teamwork. We need _teamwork_."

"Okay," Lee agreed uncertainly.

They lapsed into silence after that, Lee settling back to watch the sun move across the sky through the small window the bathroom afforded them while Ed got himself worked up and shifted around restlessly. He'd shuffle around in the bathtub as far as he could move, then he'd close his eyes to calm himself down, doze for a little while, then wake up and start getting worked up again, occasionally shouting out for Harley. Eventually, they both accepted they would have to use the bathroom in front of one another, which Ed did with quite a lot of dramatization about the inhumanity of being forced to pee in front of another person.

Meanwhile, in Lee's bedroom, Harley and the Joker were completely silent, possibly sleeping.

"I'm starving," Ed whined once it was dark again.

Lee was too, and a combination of low blood sugar and the fact that she'd twice peed in front of Ed made her feel more comfortable asking the questions she'd been nursing all day.

"What happened last night?" she asked him point-blank, making his eyes widen.

"Oooh, _gossipy_ old lady doctor," he smirked. Then he sighed deeply, rolling his eyes up like he was thinking hard. "Well, it's a pretty long story, but I guess the short version is there's a mob boss called Black Mask who wants to kill the Joker and force Harley to work for him."

Lee's eyes widened, that colorful response more than she could have hoped for, and also so completely fantastical she didn't know how to respond.

"A mob boss named Black Mask?" she asked incredulously.

"Yep, he wears a mask. All the best people do," Ed shrugged. "His real name is Roman Sionis. He's like this big-time business guy and he's pretty much taken over the entire city already."

"Wow," Lee blinked hard, trying to keep up.

"He's kind of a dick," Ed pouted. "I told him Harley and the Joker's plan to kidnap him, and he thanked me by taking his _mask_ off." He scoffed indignantly, his bottom lip sticking out again. "I mean, what kind of thanks is that, huh?"

"You betrayed Harley and the Joker?" Lee asked, to which Ed threw his hands up.

"Of course! As if I was ever _not_ going to do that." He shifted around, trying desperately to get comfortable as he talked. "I mean, how else would I get them to respect me, huh? As if they would ever respect me if I just _worked_ for them like some kind of… _henchman_. No. _They_ needed to learn that I'm as unpredictable as they are."

"So you turned them over to Black Mask to win their respect?" Lee asked. "And then you saved them from him?"

"It's like they're completely ignoring the second part!" Ed huffed miserably

"That must be really frustrating," Lee observed, offering him a sympathetic smile. "So… why did Black Mask want Harley to work for him but not the Joker?"

"Oh, cause he's _stupid_ ," Ed sighed, exasperated. " _Everyone_ knows you don't try to get Harley _or_ the Joker to work for you. They always screw people over, and it almost always ends in the National Guard getting called when people try it."

"Right," Lee agreed, not sure what else she could say to this revelation that 'everyone knows.'

"But BM was convinced he could flip Harley," Ed shrugged helplessly. "And he _definitely_ has a _thing_ for her. Who wouldn't, right? I dunno what would have happened if I hadn't shown up but he was definitely going to try to force her into being his like, bodyguard-girlfriend-slave or whatever once the Joker was dead."

"Wow," Lee's eyes widened as she thought about Harley the night before, inconsolable with her partner dying before her eyes. Apparently, after being rescued from a fate that could have been worse than death. Bodyguard-girlfriend-slave to a mob boss.

It made Lee's skin crawl, and as she thought about Harley sobbing weakly like her world was ending, she felt tears spring to her eyes too.

"Oh my God, _cuuuuuuuute_ ," Ed cooed, throwing his unchained hand over his heart. "Are you _crying_?"

"I guess," Lee shrugged, wiping tears from her eyes, feeling a little foolish. "It sounds like a pretty awful thing to go through."

"Even though she's a terrorist and kills people all the time?" Ed shot Lee a knowing look. "Like that car in your garage downstairs? She killed a guy to get that car. She smashed his head open with a rock."

Lee's eyes widened—she hadn't even thought to _ask_ about that car—but Ed wasn't paying attention. He was frowning thoughtfully.

"Well, I guess I backed over him, so maybe I killed him," he shrugged helplessly like it wasn't important. "Potato-potat-oh. He's still dead."

"Yeah, I suppose he is," Lee said quietly.

They slipped into silence again, but Ed was fidgeting more than usual in the bathtub. Lee was just about to ask if he was okay, hoping she could get him to talk before he fell into another tantrum when he groaned loudly and raked both hands through his strawberry blonde hair.

"It's just so _unfair_ ," he panted miserably. "She doesn't appreciate me _at all._ "

"Harley?" Lee asked wearily.

"Well _, duh_ ," Ed whined. "I know you don't understand because you're _boring_ , but Harley and I are the _same_ , and it's like she's just refusing to see it."

He looked genuinely upset this time, not the performative crying or complaining Lee had seen thus far, but like his feelings were actually hurt.

"How are you two the same?" Lee asked, narrowing her eyes. "You mean more than… what you do for work?"

"Yes, _exactly_ , Lee," Ed nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, she didn't even know who I was when we first met. She just thought I was silly old Ed the bartender, but she still _knew_. I could tell when she looked at me she _knew_ we were the same. You know, I used to think she was just some crazy terrorist lady dating the Joker. But then I _met_ her, and she's _so_ much more and I just, I want, I mean," he started whining again, struggling to find the right words while Lee watched wide-eyed.

It had been about twenty-five years since Lee did her psych rotation in med-school, but she remembered enough to guess that Ed was possibly a sociopath and maybe a few other things too, which led her to her next question.

"You just want her to love you?" Lee suggested delicately, and Ed turned to stare at her.

"Yes," he whispered like it was a revelation to him. "Oh my god, yes, Lee! Yes!"

"That must be really hard," Lee offered him a kind smile, hoping she hadn't just unleashed something awful upon Harley by helping Ed realize this.

"I want her to _teach_ me," Ed sighed miserably. "Like a mother, you know? Like a house mother?"

"A house mother?" Lee squinted at him.

"Oh, right, you're old, I almost forgot," Ed sighed again. "Well, as you know, I'm the Riddler," he flapped his hand modestly, a cheeky smirk sliding onto his lips. "Which is kind of like my drag persona, you know?" He narrowed his eyes at Lee. "Are you like, too old to know about drag?"

"I know about drag queens," Lee confirmed warily, feeling like she'd just gone down a rabbit hole she wouldn't be coming out of any time soon.

* * *

Even though she was exhausted, Harley found very little sleep as she kept watch over the Joker through their second night at Lee's. Instead, she sat beside him, her back against the headboard, her arms folded on her knees, not looking at him, not looking at anything.

She'd seen him sick or hurt before, but never like this. Grazed by a bullet more than once, stab wounds that didn't hit anything important like the one in his side now, broken fingers and sprained everythings. Pneumonia once, she was pretty sure. He was a horrible patient, being trapped in a bed the ultimate sacrifice of freedom as far as he was concerned. He could push through most things—as could Harley—but he was a nightmare on the rare occasion that he needed rest.

He was already being a massive prick about this round of R&R. He'd been conscious for all of ten minutes before he picked a fight with her over changing the sheets. Harley was strung so tight she'd given him the fight he'd been hoping for. It didn't last long, draining the energy out of him so he was soon unconscious again, leaving Harley to sit beside him, fretting that she may have killed him by giving into the argument. He'd woken up a few times since then—when she changed the IV in his arm after he soaked up another bag of blood, or when she checked the circulation in his fingers like Lee had shown her, but he refused to speak to her.

They'd rarely fought for the first six months of their relationship. Harley thought of that as the honeymoon period now, most of it spent getting in trouble in Gotham and then getting into more trouble in Mexico. But then he got hurt bad-ish—a bullet through his side, clean and straight through, a lot of blood but not enough for him to lose consciousness—and Harley had been tasked with making sure he took antibiotics and stayed at least moderately immobile so he could recover. They'd fought like cats and dogs that week, and something shifted between them. There was something about being able to fight and know that wasn't the end that made Harley feel even closer to him.

And once he got better, the makeup sex had been _great._

Their fights were usually the product of two things. The Joker would accuse Harley of being _moody_ —which Harley had come to understand meant she was some combination of tired, anxious, frustrated, depressed, or stressed out—which he typically had zero patience for. His way of coping with it was either to avoid her completely or sadistically _poke_ her until she lost it. Similarly, the Joker had a great capacity for being a total asshole for no reason when he felt like it, which Harley could have described as his own brand of moody if she wanted to make a point about what a hypocrite he was. He'd be a dick to her—snarky, impatient, cruel, petulant—and a fight would break out. He'd pretend he couldn't understand why she was annoyed. She _genuinely_ couldn't understand how one man could be so infuriating.

Usually, their more epic fights were followed by one of them disappearing for a few hours or even a full day to get some space and then return for the makeup sex and a stretch of giddy companionship.

They never apologized. They never compromised. And the damn sure never talked about their feelings.

Gradually, Harley's thoughts shifted from wistfully daydreaming about that companionship to who she'd seen at Wayne Manor.

Dinah.

But Harley's tired brain wasn't up to finding a creative explanation for Dinah's presence there, and besides, it didn't particularly matter anyway.

Truth be told, Harley could really have done with having Pam or Dinah or Sofia with her there now.

The sun had been up for a few hours when the Joker woke up after another long stretch of sleep. Harley watched him silently take stock of the room and of himself, then with a great deal of effort, he attempted to sit up on his own.

Harley considered offering to help, but instead, she remained where she was, taking a small amount of pleasure in watching him grind his jaw and growl in frustration as he made two more valiant attempts to pull himself up, the stab wound below his ribs and his general weakness making it an impossible task. He flopped back down, glaring at the ceiling resentfully, which was more than a little threatening just to observe.

"How do you feel?" Harley asked warily.

"Like shit," the Joker rasped, his voice scratchy but not as weak as it had been. "Hungry," he added, shooting her a dirty look like it was her fault.

Feeling like she was about to burst into tears again, Harley slid off the bed and padded out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom where Lee and Ed were both dozing in uncomfortable-looking positions. Harley realized then that neither of them had eaten in over a day, and she hadn't eaten in much longer than that.

"Lee," Harley said, touching the older woman on the shoulder to wake her up.

Ed's eyes flew open as Lee blinked sleepily.

"Harley!" he shrieked desperately, rattling his handcuff and making Harley scowl. "You have to let me out of here! I saved your lives! How can you treat me like this?"

"If you hadn't betrayed us, you wouldn't have _had_ to save us, _Ed_ ," Harley snapped roughly, feeling her blood pressure start to rise. "And the only reason I haven't killed you yet is I haven't got time to get rid of your _body_ , and I don't want Lee to have to smell your corpse _rotting_."

Ed's mouth fell open in melodramatic shock. "You—" he started to say.

"Say another _word_ ," Harley snarled. "And I swear to _God_ , I'll cut your tongue out."

Ed pinched his lips together, scowling but ultimately keeping quiet.

Harley turned her attention back to Lee, breathing deeply to calm her racing pulse, and taking some comfort in Lee's small, sympathetic smile.

"He's awake again," Harley explained, woodenly. "He's hungry."

"Do you want me to take a look at him?" Lee asked.

"I don't want to put you through that," Harley muttered. "What can I feed him?"

"He needs iron," Lee said kindly. "Red meat, kale, spinach," she hesitated. "There's a butcher just up the street and a vegan cafe right next to it. They do these green juices. You should get him to drink a few of those."

"Green juice and red meat," Harley nodded numbly, thinking one of those was going to go down better than the other. "Got it."

Harley poked around the back room, picking through the box of clothes Lee had opened the night before. They were about two sizes too big for Harley but she found some workout gear; electric blue leggings, a neon sports bra, and a gray tank top, along with some well-worn sneakers, a good enough disguise to blend in on the streets of the upper west side at noon on a Sunday. Then she grabbed Lee's wallet and keys out of her purse, along with a paring knife from the kitchen just in case, and headed off, relieved to be out of the small apartment.

It was only when she got back with a few jugs of green juice and five pounds of ground beef that Harley realized she had no idea what the fuck to do with it and had to unlock Lee from the bathroom to help.

"Not much time for cooking?" Lee asked, trying to be friendly, which made Harley wonder how terrible she really looked if her hostage was being nice to her. "I didn't mean…" Lee backtracked.

But Harley waved her off and took a seat at the counter splitting the small kitchen from the living room, folding her arms and burying her face in them.

"Don't worry about it," she mumbled, sighing into her arms. She stayed there for a moment, then pulled herself up again, knowing she needed to be a better captor to her hostage. "No, I don't cook," she admitted. "I never learned how."

"Well… want to help me?" Lee asked cautiously, holding up an onion.

Harley looked between the onion and Lee's hopeful face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. This woman was a little bit odd, and she wasn't reacting with quite as much… _terror_ as Harley had come to expect from her victims. But the longer Harley held Lee's eye, watching her smile wobble, she realized Lee was just trying to stay on Harley's good side and stay alive, which was definitely the _smart_ thing to do.

She shrugged helplessly and held out her hand for the onion, grateful to have something to distract herself with.

"So," Harley sighed as she chopped very, _very_ slowly, trying to keep the tiny pieces of onion the same size and perfectly square. "Why do you have a pair of handcuffs stashed in your backroom?"

Lee laughed a little bitterly.

"My ex was a cop," she explained. "There's a box of his stuff back there I just never bothered to get rid of."

"Cop, huh," Harley hummed thoughtfully. "Let me guess. He refused to put you ahead of the job?"

"Something like that," Lee said, her face souring. "It was more like he had a death wish, and I couldn't bring myself to watch it." She shrugged. "I left him a few weeks before the wedding. Best decision I ever made."

"Yikes," Harley pushed the chopping board toward Lee. "What happened to him?"

"Oh, he got married to someone else and had a couple of kids," Lee shot Harley a knowing look. "But he couldn't stay out of trouble, and she ended up leaving him too."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Harley observed drily, glancing over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door.

"I take it he's not the best patient," Lee made a sympathetic face as she put a pot on the stove and turned the burner on while Harley slumped forward over the kitchen counter.

"No, definitely not," she sighed, and then without meaning to, she continued. "He's got this… unstoppable energy inside him. He's always moving, always thinking, always working. So it's _torture_ for him to be trapped in a bed like this. And it's painful to watch because he's so full of life and—"

Harley stopped abruptly, realizing that in a handful of sentences, she'd just said more about the Joker to another person than she ever had before. She also hadn't eaten or slept in two days.

But Lee just smiled, the picture of empathy, and scraped the onion into the pot.

"I'm sorry you're being subjected to Ed," Harley said after a long pause, bracing her cheek on her fist. "He's the worst."

"I feel kind of bad for him," Lee admitted with a wince. "It seems like his pathology makes it so he's constantly looking for something. He's never satisfied."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Harley agreed flatly.

"Including your approval," Lee added sagely, and when Harley raised a dubious eyebrow, Lee leaned over the counter conspiratorially, keeping her voice low. "I think he's looking for some… guidance from you."

"Guidance?" Harley scoffed. "What, like he wants a teacher?"

"I think it's a little more personal than that," Lee admitted and then bit her lip. "He told me what happened," she said. "With… Black Mask."

"His real name is Roman," Harley sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

Maybe she should just cut Ed's tongue out anyway.

"Well, _Roman_ seems like an entitled piece of work," Lee observed, dumping the ground beef into the pot and breaking it up with a wooden spoon. "It sounds like he wants to _own_ you." She made a face, disgusted.

"That's exactly what he wants," Harley agreed darkly.

"Men are pigs," Lee said drily.

Harley felt a modicum better after spending a couple of hours in the kitchen with Lee, half-learning to cook spaghetti bolognese, but mostly talking about things unrelated to the situation at hand. But then the spaghetti was finished, and after wolfing down two portions for herself, Harley locked Lee back up in the bathroom with Ed—who, miraculously, was still silent—and braced herself for facing the Joker.

He'd managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, the blankets pooling around his waist as he glared at her across the room.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she snapped, shoving the bowl into his hands.

He rolled his eyes like she was being unreasonable and inhaled the food, finishing the whole thing within thirty seconds. Harley brought him another two bowls, standing with her arms crossed, staring at him as he ate. Then when he finished, he fixed her with a sour look, his jaw working.

"So uh, _sweetheart_ ," he sneered, coming right out the gate with a pet name to piss her off. "Why dontcha go grab daddy some cigarettes, huh?"

"Fuck you," Harley countered simply. "I'm not your _maid,_ J."

"Well, what fuckin' good are you," he snapped, his shoulders twitching. It seemed the food had perked him up enough for another argument.

Too tired to deal with him, and frankly, a little relieved he was alive enough to be a dick, Harley turned and marched out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

_"_ _Harley!"_ the Joker bellowed after her, his voice lowering to that deep, inhuman register he used when he wanted to be _really_ scary. " ** _HARLEY!_** "

She ignored him, and she ignored the looks she got from Lee and Ed as she stormed past them into the spare room, throwing herself down on the twin bed there in hopes of finding sleep.

* * *

It had been almost two full days since Harley and the Joker disappeared from the Wayne Foundation fundraiser, and Vicki couldn't focus on anything else. She was avoiding Bruce and floating between her office and her apartment, lingering at the former to avoid being alone.

She didn't know how she was supposed to feel about Harley being kidnapped and possibly murdered by Black Mask, and she didn't know what she was supposed to _do_ about it.

It didn't help that Lois Lane's voice continued to pop into her head— _'these assholes need to go down, but it won't be easy.'_ Vicki still wanted that. She wanted to expose Sionis and Daggett, and Hill too.

There was also the matter of Roman's obsession with Bruce, and Vicki could only think of one possible option to make life difficult for Sionis and his cronies on that front.

She finally worked up the nerve to call Detective Montoya, and they agreed to meet at the same Midtown coffee shop they'd spoken at before. Montoya looked drained, like she'd been up all night and was running on fumes. She took a long drag off her Juul as she settled into the booth across from Vicki, who offered her pinched smile.

"I sure hope you got good news for me, Vicki." Montoya sighed out a cloud of water vapor and pulled out a notepad.

"I take it you haven't had any leads on Harley or the Joker?" Vicki probed gently.

"Nah," Montoya sniffed and fell back in her seat. "They've gone totally quiet, which means it's only a matter of time before their next attack." She shot Vicki an expectant look. "So like I said, I sure hope you got good news for me."

"Maybe," Vicki cleared her throat. "I heard from a source at City Hall."

"Is that so?" Montoya thumbed the cap off a ballpoint pen and leaned forward, intrigued.

"Last time we met, I told you I was looking into Daggett," Vicki started cautiously. "It turns out Janice Porter and Commissioner Akins were both looking into Daggett Shipping." Vicki caught Montoya's eye. "Judge Chiecco was issuing warrants to get a closer look at Daggett's books."

Montoya's eyes narrowed, and she spent a few long seconds considering Vicki curiously.

Vicki's heart started leaping nervously though she tried to remain impassive, then pivoted to 'concerned,' which was surely the more appropriate reaction.

"Daggett Shipping," Montoya mused at length. "What were they doing? Shipping in something illegal?"

"I don't know," Vicki lied. "But during the Thanksgiving Riots a couple of years back, the Joker exposed the Kane Company's corruption and Bertrum Crowne's money laundering."

"Yeah, I remember that," Montoya made a face. "So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… Gotham isn't black and white, including the wealthy people," Vicki explained hesitantly. "Maybe Daggett's crooked and the Joker and Harley Quinn are covering it up for him."

"That sounds backward to me," Montoya frowned. "Surely they'd want everyone to know about it? Get people riled up and mad?"

"Look, I just thought you should know all three of their victims were looking into Daggett Shipping," Vicki shrugged. "Maybe you should look into Daggett too. That's all I've got."

"Alright," Montoya agreed warily, making a few notes on her pad without looking away from Vicki. "So, what do you make of it?"

"It's the Joker and Harley Quinn so," Vicki forced a smile and bounced her shoulders in a stiff shrug. "Nothing is what it seems."

After another ten minutes of playing dumb and fighting back the urge to blurt out the entire Roman Sionis story, Vicki managed to escape. She pretended to take a call from her editor, promising Montoya she would be in touch if she learned anything new, and desperately hoping Montoya would do something productive with that information about Daggett.

"Hey, Vale!"

Vicki yelped and dropped her phone, sending it skittering across the sidewalk. She swung around to find her photographer, Alexander Knox leaning against the wall beside the cafe's front door.

"What the fuck, Alex!" Vicki snapped, scooping her phone up off the ground and checking the screen.

"Woah, sorry, Vale," Knox's eyes widened, concerned. "I saw you talkin' to that cop again and—"

"What did I say about following me?" Vicki spat. "It's fucking creepy."

"Hey, I'm sorry, I was worried," Knox insisted, his face sinking into a heavy frown.

He started to edge closer, but Vicki held her hand up, stopping him.

"Do not follow me again," she instructed crisply, her expression grim, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

* * *

After her fight with the Joker, Harley managed to sleep for most of the afternoon, getting at least a few REM cycles under her belt. It was dark again when she woke up to Ed wailing like a toddler because he was hungry, and though she considered just letting him starve —that way he would die, it would be slow and painful, and it would give Harley time to figure out what to do with his body—she ended up throwing a bowl of spaghetti at his head. The bowl smashed against the tiled wall behind him, and he was forced to pick shards of porcelain out of the noodles spilling over his shoulder into his lap, making Harley smirk happily.

Then she checked on the Joker, bringing green juice and already knowing it would go badly.

But she hadn't expected to open the door to find him growling in frustration as he tried to paw one of the IVs out of his arm, the big one in his chest already on the floor, a dribble of blood rolling down his torso.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" she demanded, storming up to him and shoving his shoulder, making him sway back as he scowled up at her.

"I am gettin' _outta_ here, _doll face,"_ he countered gruffly, batting her hands away as she flitted around him.

"You can't even get out of that _bed_ ," Harley snapped, to which he growled at her outright. "Go on, try it," Harley taunted him, stepping back. "Give it your best shot," she sneered.

"I'm gonna get out of this bed one day, _honey bear,_ " he snarled. "And you're not gonna be happy when I do."

"I don't know if you noticed, J, but you're running low on blood at the minute," Harley huffed, her voice pitching higher, more emotional. "You're _never_ getting out of that bed if you don't let yourself heal!"

He devolved into incoherent muttering as he occasionally did when he was frustrated, and Harley felt bad for him even though he didn't deserve it. Bad enough that she went to the bodega down the street, feeling paranoid and keeping her head down as she passed beneath the glow of the old-fashioned street lamps running the length of Robinson Park.

She bought an airplane-sized bottle of vodka, a carton of cigarettes and a lighter, and one of Hill's red MGGA hats, which the bodega owner was selling enthusiastically.

"Don't forget to vote!" he grinned as Harley pulled the hat down over her eyes and stomped back to Lee's townhouse.

She sat on the front steps, pulling herself together as she drank the small bottle of vodka, trying to make a plan, so she didn't rip her hair out. She reminded herself that for the moment, they were just frustrated, bored, and stuck in a small space. They were alive and relatively safe with a place to recover without the Batman or Black Canary kicking down their front door. And even though Roman was out there, _winning_ for the moment, they had slipped through his fingers.

He was probably pissed off about that, a thought that cheered Harley up somewhat.

With this in mind, she jogged back up to Lee's apartment and grabbed the green juice out of the fridge, deciding to try the carrot approach to get the Joker to drink it instead of the stick.

She opened the door to the bedroom and poked the carton of cigarettes in, waving it like a white flag before she slipped in herself. The Joker looked annoyed; his dark eyes gleaming like he already knew what was coming. Of course he did.

Harley tossed the cigarettes on the bed beside his hip. He ignored them as she edged closer, clicking the lighter to life as she eyed him appraisingly.

"This," she said, holding up the juice. "Will help you get out of that bed."

"Do not… _patronize_ me," he growled, not quite reaching that _scary_ register but close to it.

"It's up to you," Harley countered breezily, looking between the green juice and the lighter, then shrugging helplessly. "You want to smoke? You drink this shit."

She threw the bottle on the bed and waved the lighter at him, but he just glared at her, making Harley deflate that he wouldn't accept her olive branch.

In the end, she tossed the lighter on the bed too, shooting him a disappointed look before she shuffled out of the bedroom, determined to get more sleep since there was obviously nothing she could do for him.

The vodka helped, and she slept straight through the night, finally feeling something close to human when she woke up the next morning.

She checked on the Joker and was delighted to see he'd sucked up another couple bags of blood of his own accord, drank all the kale juice, found time to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes, and was sleeping again.

Harley went for a run around the park, trying to burn off some of the restless energy that came with not being physically exhausted anymore. It helped a little bit but also served to remind her that she needed to eat again. When she returned to the apartment, she unchained Lee to cook for them, and they had another casual, friendly conversation over the few hours it took Lee to make chili con carne.

Harley was starting to wonder if there wasn't more to Lee Tompkins than what she projected. She wasn't just trying to stay on Harley's good side… she seemed _comfortable_. Like she enjoyed Harley's company, which was a unique experience.

Maybe it was loneliness or a desire for more excitement in her life, both of which Harley was happy to take advantage of. Lee seemed to be getting along with Ed, too, somehow managing to position herself as a calming influence to keep him quiet-ish.

But of course, the relative calm couldn't last forever. Harley chained Lee back up in the bathroom, magnanimously leaving her and Ed with some throw pillows and Lee's laptop—after unplugging the WiFi router, obviously— to keep them entertained. Then she confronted the Joker again and was bewildered to find him hobbling out of the bathroom with a cigarette pinched between his lips, wearing the blood-soaked tuxedo trousers from the fundraiser.

"What the fuck are you doing!" Harley demanded, unsure how to respond as she watched him lower himself creakily onto the bed, smoke billowing out of his nose as he worked through what must have been an excruciating effort considering the stab wound in his side. "You almost bled to death less than three days ago!" Harley groaned.

"Uh huh," he grunted, shooting her a dirty look as he collapsed back against the pillow. "Time to think about gettin' out of here _, baby doll."_

"J, you look like shit," Harley sighed, running a hand over her sweaty ponytail.

"So fuckin' _what,_ " he snapped roughly. "I know you're playin' house with the doctor and _Ed—_ "

"Playing _house_?" Harley scoffed. "Have you lost your _mind_?"

"Depends on who ya ask," he sneered at her, stabbing the butt of his cigarette out on the wall and flicking it across the room.

Harley noticed how many cigarette butts were on the floor and realized just how much he was smoking to stave off boredom. She felt her blood boil as she grabbed the carton of cigarettes off the bed.

"You know these constrict your blood vessels, right?" she spat. "Your blood pressure is already obscenely low!"

_"_ _Harley…"_ he snarled, his eyes flashing dangerously as he glared up at her. It was a warning. _Nagging_ was not appreciated.

"Spare me!" she barked, throwing the carton of cigarettes at his head. "Kill yourself if you want!" she nearly screamed, then turned and stormed into the en suite bathroom, letting him shout and growl after her, his voice growing more volatile since he couldn't follow her.

Harley turned on the shower to block him out and scrubbed her hands over her face, again trying to make a plan. The fact that he was walking around, even if he shouldn't have been, was something to be happy about. But that meant figuring out the next step, and at the moment, strategizing their way around Black Mask felt like more than what she was capable of.

The Joker wasn't completely wrong that she wanted to stay at the apartment playing house. It felt _safe_ there with Lee and a more docile Ed—giving him access to TV had proved incredibly effective. At the same time, Harley was aching to get the fuck out of there, the tiny space making her feel like the walls were closing in. It wasn't time to leave yet, but that time was coming, and what horrified Harley was that instead of looking forward to getting out there and killing Roman Sionis, she was scared she couldn't do it.

Harley pulled off her clothes and climbed into the shower, sitting in the tub and covering her face with her hands. Second to the Joker nearly dying, this self-doubt was by far the worst thing to come of their dealings with Black Mask. _Roman_. It was like having the rug ripped out from under her, everything she thought she knew about herself torn apart, leaving her questioning who she was and what she was supposed to do.

She stayed in the shower until the boiler ran out of hot water, and then she stayed there a little bit longer, shivering under the freezing spray. Eventually, she turned it off and just continued to sit in the bathtub, wet and naked and miserable.

She numbly dragged herself out of the tub and pulled her dirty clothes back on, her wet hair dripping down the back of the gray lycra top.

Predictably, the Joker was sitting up in bed, smoking and looking paler than he had before Harley went into the bathroom, but she'd lost the will to nag him any further.

"We gotta talk," he said gruffly, his voice sounding stronger than it had yet, possibly due to the sheer force of his will to be stronger than he currently was.

Harley nodded weakly and sat on the end of the bed, waiting for him to speak, knowing he was shooting her one of his _withering_ looks because she was being _moody_.

_"_ _Harley_ ," he snapped impatiently, and when she looked up at him sulkily, he ran his tongue over his teeth, his patience wearing thin.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then wrapped an arm around herself and raised her eyebrows expectantly, silently.

"Here's what yer gonna do," the Joker announced, his tone dripping in condescension. "Go find a payphone and call Lonnie's burner. Get him and Frost over here for a _powwow_ so we can figure out what the fuck we're gonna do."

Harley nodded slowly and rose from the bed, but she didn't get very far before the Joker leaned forward with a grunt of effort and grabbed her forearm, his fingers like five sharp points digging into her skin. Harley met his eye, knowing it must have taken a massive amount of effort to sit up that quickly with a stab wound. But apparently, touching her was essential.

His chin tipped down so he was looking up at her, his expression grim.

"Harl," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Are you crackin' up on me?"

Harley swallowed thickly, thinking that of the times he'd asked her this, this was the closest she'd come to saying yes. She licked her lips uncertainly, looking at the white bandages covering his ribs and his arms. She met his eye, the dark, predatory gleam she saw there reminding her that he was alive and not going anywhere for the foreseeable future. And so long as he was alive, Harley would do her best to stay sane and with him too.

"No," she promised him solemnly, trying to pull her arm away. He held on for a second longer, then let her go, apparently appeased with their arrangement.

Harley focused on the mission at hand instead of the many awful things that could have happened while they'd been hiding out. She pulled on Lee's sneakers and the MGGA hat, slipping a small paring knife in the waistband of her leggings just in case, and jogged about five blocks until she found an old payphone on the corner of Robinson Park.

It smelled of piss inside, but Harley hardly noticed as she picked up the phone, deposited some coins in the slot, and dialed Lonnie's burner from memory, dreading what was sure to be a very stressful conversation.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, for longer than it should have considering Lonnie's sole purpose in life was to wait for the phone to ring with whatever the Joker needed from him.

And then it stopped. Someone answered, but they didn't speak.

Then there was a sigh that sent ice-cold terror flooding Harley's veins.

"Harley," Roman greeted her softly. "Is that you?"

Harley immediately hung up the phone, her eyes wide, shocked. Not just because Roman's voice was still reverberating in her ears, but because if Roman had Lonnie's phone, that meant he had _Lonnie_.

She started to get dizzy as a series of scenarios played out across her mind's eye, her ability to control the situation spinning completely out of her hands as Roman removed every opportunity she'd had to take charge. He was making them submit one way or the other. They had no resources, no backup, no weapons, no money, and the entire city was currently focused on hunting them down.

Harley started breathing hard until she was nearly hyperventilating, something like a panic attack setting in, and in a vain attempt to make it stop, she pulled back her fist and punched the glass wall of the phone booth. The glass cracked, and her knuckles split open, but the pain didn't register. She flung the phone booth door open, looked up and down the darkening street, then took off at a sprint into the park, desperate to do something to push away this unfamiliar, piercing _fear_.

This was not who she was.

The street lamps were coming on in the park as the sun set. They were electrical lights inside old fashioned gas lamps. Harley ran through the park, trying to focus on the blood pumping through her heart and her burning lungs, trying to wrestle back control until she couldn't go on any longer and staggered to a stop on rubbery legs.

She doubled over, heaving loud, wheezing breaths when she heard laughter.

"Hey, lady!" A young voice called out to her. "You wanna buy some BO!"

Harley turned to see two kids who couldn't have been older than fourteen lounging on a park bench and drinking beer. They were dressed like the youths on the Eastside, but their clothes were covered in expensive brands, and if they lived Uptown, they were no doubt from upper-middle-class families. The _bad_ kids at the rich kid school. The kind of kids who never appreciated how good they had it and thought they deserved everything.

Harley squared her shoulders, her breathing still ragged as she walked up to them. They jumped to their feet, their youthful faces shining as they realized they might have found a customer.

"You're selling Blue Orchid?" Harley asked, looking between them.

"Yeah, lady," one of them smirked. "You interested?"

"Yeah," Harley said softly, pulling the small knife from the waistband of her leggings.

She kicked the kid on her right in the chest, hard enough to throw him onto his back, then launched herself at the one on the left before he had a chance to react. She stabbed him in the eye with the short blade, making him scream bloody murder as he fell backward, clutching his face.

The one she kicked sat up, his eyes wide and terrified as he started to scrabble to his feet but Harley was on top of him before he could get up. She grabbed the front of his shirt and punched him once to subdue him, then shoved him down and sat on his chest, punching him a second time for good measure. She grabbed the half-empty bottle of beer he'd dropped and smashed it open on his forehead, ignoring his screams as she got a handful of his hair and yanked his head back so his neck was exposed, then she stabbed him in the throat with the broken bottle.

It took more effort than a knife, and he got a few more screams out as she twisted the broken glass, finally slicing open his jugular beneath, a red spurt of blood telling her he was done for.

She jumped to her feet, turning around to find the screaming, panicking friend staggering away in a zig-zag, pleading for help. Harley sprinted after him and tackled him from behind, wrestling him onto his back, ignoring his wiggling and squealing and pleas for mercy. She ripped the knife out of his eye and started stabbing blindly at him. He got an arm between them, the knife piercing his hand and his face as Harley panted through her nose and gritted her teeth, finding a momentary sense of clarity as she gave in to her rage and her frustration, as she took control of the situation by taking these boys' lives from them.

But with that clarity came the knowledge that she couldn't be caught in the park, murdering one child while another died a few yards away.

Harley grabbed the boy's hair and pulled his head back just as she'd done to his friend, and she slit his throat in one long, jagged line, the dull knife making her arm strain as she forced the blade through his flesh.

Then she jumped to her feet and ran.

* * *

**A/N: Oh…. Harley.**

**Harley, Harley, Harley.**

**So take a moment to absorb that.**

**Then rewind to the slightly nicer moment when Harley tells you about her and the Joker's relationship, which is one of my favorite scenes. We'll hear from him next week.**

**I wrote two fluffy one-shots for Tumblr prompts this week, including 'Drunk Tank.' which I actually quite like. Harley sees the Joker drunk for the first time. Read it[here.](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/631942682060652544/drunk-tank)  
**

**_Next: On Day 4 of hiding out at Lee's, the Joker decides it's time to do something productive. Meanwhile Frost does some sniffing around of his own._ **

**Please comment & review - it means the world to me. **

**Kudos if AO3 will let ya.**

**xo**


	16. Chapter16

_Theme: Soulwax & Chloe Sevigny - 'Heaven Scent' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/XIyv-PqlM_E)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2T6JEq7d73tIY1XaKwXQQR?si=zBsjoccqT-OyuqoRGKyXCA))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

16.

* * *

Frost had a little studio apartment downtown, a crummy place with a bed that folded out of the wall and a mini-fridge that never closed all the way and was always leaking. He waited three days for the Joker to get in touch. Frost's job was to come when called, not to seek the boss out.

But after three days, he started thinking maybe the Joker might be in a situation where he needed Frost to make a move first. This was new territory because it meant accepting the boss had a weakness. Frost was worried about Harley too.

He decided to head up to Midtown on the morning of the fourth day, walking all twenty-two blocks to the Crowne Building. He typed in the code on the keypad at the side of the parking garage door and squeezed through the rows of Ferraris and Lamborghinis to get to the honeymoon suite's private elevator. He'd always thought this was a weird but ingenious place to keep Lonnie, like a secret weapon in the most unimaginable location. He also knew Lonnie was under strict orders not to leave the honeymoon suite, and if anyone could offer some clarification on where the Joker was, Lonnie could.

Frost used his key and took the elevator up to the small penthouse, hoping he was doing the right thing by going uninvited. The Joker was impossible to predict, and he was hardly the kind of guy you needed to worry about. Frost wasn't sure if he was overstepping.

The elevator doors parted into the honeymoon suite's small foyer, and Frost immediately knew something was wrong. Not just because of the silence, but also from the distinct lack of the smell of weed hanging in the air. He checked the living room, finding all of Lonnie's monitors were sleeping, not off, and then the bedroom, which was an absolute mess. But there was no Lonnie.

Frost stepped back into the living room, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he considered what Lonnie being gone meant. Frost had been in the room when the Joker told him not to leave the honeymoon suite—not for _anything_ , including loss of limb—and the very creative threats that had come with that directive. As usual, the boss hadn't shared his explicit reasons for why Lonnie wasn't allowed to leave, but Frost knew well enough that it wouldn't have been on a whim. The Joker would have had a good reason for keeping Lonnie there. If Lonnie was gone, that meant the Joker told him to leave.

Or, it meant whoever the Joker was hiding Lonnie from had found him anyway.

Frost headed into the kitchen to make himself a quick drink, just a shot of whiskey to help clear his head, followed by a glass of water to chase it as he worked through what Lonnie, Harley, and the Joker all being missing meant, and who he would need to speak to next if he wanted to find some answers.

* * *

Harley slept in the bathtub.

After impulsively murdering two boys in Robinson Park, she sprinted back to Lee's apartment, only pausing to wash the blood from her hands in a fountain.

She was exhausted by the time she threw open the front door, completely drained of energy, her eyes so heavy and limbs so weak she almost didn't make it into the bedroom.

When she barged into the bedroom, the Joker looked on the verge of saying something snarky, but then his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his nose wrinkled—the closest look he had to 'concerned'—as he watched her stagger into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind her.

A few hours later, who knew how many, he pulled himself out of bed so he could coo at her through the bathroom door, using a gentle, cajoling voice to get her to come out, which she did not do. The cajoling rapidly built up to barking and snarling as he banged on the door, though they both knew he was in no state to break it down. Eventually, he tired himself out and left her alone, and Harley fell back asleep only to be woken up a few hours later to the same song and dance, and then again a few hours after that. Then he seemed to give up on her.

There was no window in the en suite bathroom, but it must have been morning again, if not later, when Harley forced herself to unravel from the fetal position and sit up. She could hear the Joker puttering around between the bedroom and the living room, and she sat there listening, trying to work out what he was doing when she heard him through the wall, using his nicest, most charming voice to speak to Lee and Ed.

_Great_.

Still exhausted, Harley smoothed her hair off her face and resigned herself to the fact that it was time to face him. She stood and faced herself in the mirror, unsurprised to find teenage boy blood on her neck and her shirt. She took a shower to make herself feel more human, and even brushed her teeth, something she rarely took time to do, and then once dressed in the blood-free leggings and a sports bra, she exited the bathroom to find the Joker sprawled out on the bed, waiting for her.

He'd changed into a pair of gray pants that were too big and too short for him, but also not covered in blood, and he'd removed the IV from his arm. He watched warily as she stepped out of the bathroom, almost sheepishly.

"You gonna tell me what happened?" He demanded irritably as Harley sat at the foot of the bed. "Or have I gotta _guess_?"

"No, I'll tell you," she said stiffly. "Roman has Lonnie."

The Joker took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Hmm," he growled quietly, and a long silence stretched between them.

Harley looked up to see his jaw was twitching, and he was staring at the wall, obviously thinking over what Roman having Lonnie meant. But eventually, his eyes darted back to her, his face souring.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess that those two dead kiddos in the park were you, uh…" he rotated his hand in mid-air. _"Expressing_ yourself."

"It was an accident," Harley muttered, knowing that as much as the Joker was a fan of impulsive death and destruction, murdering two kids right around the corner from the safe house when you were trying to lie low was unhelpful in his book.

He didn't prize self-control. But he didn't prize stupidity either.

"Yep," he said resolutely, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt, moving _much_ faster than he had been only the night before.

And that was all he said, though he slammed the door hard enough to make the walls rattle on his way out into the living room.

Harley recognized this for what it was - he wanted space. Space away from her.

* * *

There was only one other person Frost knew of who might have an idea what the hell happened to Harley and the Joker at Bruce Wayne's party, and that was Harley's journalist friend Vicki Vale. How to get in touch with Vicki to ask her what went down was less obvious. Frost wasn't exactly an inconspicuous-looking guy, and he figured walking up to her office and asking if she had some time to chat might draw attention, which neither of them needed. This was gonna take some creativity.

The Gotham Globe's HQ was only a few blocks from Lonnie's penthouse, and Frost was already feeling like he stood out like a sore thumb among all the black and gray suits rushing past him. He hung around a newspaper vendor's cart beside the subway exit, eyeballing the low skyscraper entrance and pretending to read the paper until he saw Vicki go inside. Maybe he was projecting, but she looked stressed out and tired.

Frost loitered outside the building for a bit longer when he came up with an idea that would work if he was having an especially lucky day. He'd passed a florist's shop on his way down from Lonnie's, so he headed back that way and bought a bouquet of roses, figuring even if they were sent anonymously, they'd make their way into Vicki's hands. When he wrote out the card, he focused very hard on making his handwriting legible.

_Vicki,_

_Meet me at Ann's bench at 7 PM_

_A friend._

It sounded a little creepy, but Frost couldn't think of a better way to convince Vicki to meet him somewhere discrete, so it would have to do.

He paid for the flowers and gave the florist Vicki's name and the Gotham Globe's HQ address. Then he headed back downtown to kill some time at his old bar, the Grace.

It was a straight-laced establishment, at least compared to the Iceberg Lounge or the Cheetah Bar or any of the bars on the Eastside. It was a real nice place, somewhere people never got in fights, and the manager paid for protection to keep the peace. The mahogany bar was about a century-old itself, the stained glass snugs and brass fittings all old fashioned and leftover from another time, just like the barmen, who wore long white aprons and kept their hair slicked back neatly.

Frost nursed a whiskey with a soda water back for a few hours. There were always a couple of guys who sat at the Grace's bar all day, spending their social security cheques or their disability cheques and killing time. Frost caught up with some of those regulars, even buying a few of them drinks. That was something you forgot about when you worked with the Joker—that money was a thing to worry about. With the Joker, money was taken and used when necessary, not something to covet. Once you started thinking about money that way, so many of the worries that normally came to men just seemed...

Unnecessary.

Around half-past-six, Frost paid his bill and caught the subway south to the University District, getting a little bit nervous as he thought about what it would mean if Vicki Vale didn't show up. He didn't want to push her too hard, but if she didn't show, he would have to come up with another way to get her attention. He didn't want to scare her—as far as he was concerned they were on the same team—but he needed to get the boss back. And Harley too.

It was the height of summer, so the sun was hanging low in the sky at seven PM. There were still plenty of young people lingering in the park at that time, smoking weed or drinking beers, and listening to music on their phones. Frost people-watched as he waited, a full hour ticking by before he started to think she wasn't going to show, and maybe he would have to pull something heavy-handed out of the bag to get her to cooperate. Ah, he really hoped not.

Then around eight-thirty, Vicki Vale finally appeared. Even from where he was sitting, Frost could see she was nervous, looking around furtively and wearing sunglasses to hide behind. She wore a pair of white sneakers and a suit with a camisole beneath, looking a little rumpled and messy, like maybe she'd had a nap in her office. Maybe that was why she was late, cause she'd had a nap after not being able to sleep the night before.

Frost offered her a small smile as she fell on the bench beside him.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice thick with paranoia.

Frost sighed, seeing this wasn't going to go as easy as he'd hoped.

"My name's Jonny Frost, Ms Vale," he told her gently in his rumbly baritone. "I work for the Joker."

"Wonderful," Vicki huffed unhappily. "What do you want?"

"I was hoping you could help me," Frost explained. "Ya see, I can't seem to find my boss or his lady friend."

Vicki released a long, frustrated sigh and pulled her sunglasses off, dropping them on the bench beside her as she ran her hand through her hair. Frost waited patiently for her to pull herself together, partially to be nice to her, but also cause if he pushed her too hard, she'd clam up completely, and then he'd have to go the heavy-handed route.

"What do you mean you can't find them?" she asked at length.

"I dropped them off at your boyfriend's house for the party," Frost said carefully. "And haven't heard from em' since."

Vicki closed her eyes and sighed again, this time like she was accepting some inevitable fate.

"I called Harley," she admitted, meeting Frost's eye for the first time. "Someone else answered. A man."

"A man, huh?" Frost asked warily.

"I think it was Black Mask," Vicki worried, her brow knitting together.

Frost nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

If Black Mask knew they would be at Bruce Wayne's party, there was only one person who could have tipped him off.

_The Riddler._

"Crap," Frost sighed, fishing his cigarettes out of his jacket and popping one between his lips.

"Can I bum one?" Vicki asked timidly.

Frost passed her a smoke and lit it for her, watching her face as she took a drag and looked out across the park.

"You say anything on the phone?" he asked her warily, but she shook her head.

"I've been on TV too many times. People know my voice," she sighed, then glanced at Frost. "So... what are you going to do?"

"I got a couple ideas," Frost narrowed his eyes at her. "What are _you_ gonna do?"

"Me?" Vicki's back straightened. "I don't have anything to do with this."

"I'm afraid ya do, Ms Vale," Frost sighed out a cloud of smoke, watching her face closely. "You wanna help Harley, don't ya?"

"No," Vicki hissed out of the corner of her mouth. "No, I don't want to help _Harley Quinn._ "

She took two drags off her cigarette, getting flustered, and Frost let her have a moment to deal with her feelings, not wanting to push her.

"Fuck," she huffed in resignation, then looked squarely at Frost. "Okay, fine. What are we going to do?"

"You talk to the cops yet?" Frost asked, immediately knowing she had when she rolled her shoulders back defensively.

"Not about… any of _this_ ," she insisted. "There's a cop from the MCU who's been sniffing around. I told her about how Porter, Akins, and Cietto were all investigating Daggett Shipping." She glanced sideways at Frost. "I thought maybe... if they start looking at Daggett, they could get to Black Mask, you know..."

"The legal way," Frost filled in for her.

"Yeah," she nodded, her face falling. "But it doesn't feel like anything gets done the legal way in Gotham."

"Ya know my job, it doesn't usually need this much thinking," Frost said, offering her a smile. "So I might not know as much as you about Black Mask. Maybe you could fill me in?"

"Okay," Vicki agreed weakly. "But I'm gonna need another smoke."

Frost sorted her out with another cigarette. Then she spent a good fifteen minutes talking, telling him all about Roman Sionis, Hamilton Hill, and John Daggett, all of it slotting together beside what Frost already knew from Crane, who had no doubt turned on them too.

Black Mark's interest in Harley left an especially bad taste in Frost's mouth. One he was sure the Joker shared, though he suspected Harley would rather fight for herself than have her man do it for her.

"Do you think they could be dead?" Vicki asked quietly once they'd sat in silence for a little while.

"Naw," Frost said immediately. "No way."

"Why?" Vicki asked.

"They ain't easy to kill," Frost explained, catching her eye. "They may be hurt or they may be in trouble somewhere, but they're alive." He nodded with absolute certainty. "You better believe everyone out there, the good guys and the bad guys, they all want em' dead right now. Now they've only got you and me to help them."

Vicki's brow furrowed like she wasn't sure how to feel about that. Frost understood. Harley had convinced her she needed to be worried about what Black Mask would do to her boyfriend and that there was nothing the police could do to stop him. That may have been true, but She was also, despite herself, worried about Harley even though she didn't want to be.

"Look, Ms Vale, I'm gonna have a word with a few folks," Frost said, shifting to the side to pull the new burner he'd bought for her out of his jacket. "Can ya do me a favor and keep your ear to the ground? Anything you hear from your cop-friend or your boyfriend, or anything at all, you let me know?"

He handed her the phone, and after a moment's pause, she nodded it and took it.

"Okay," Vicki agreed.

* * *

Here's how that twenty-four hour period went for the Joker.

When Harley staggered into the bedroom, bloodied and nearly catatonic, he knew immediately that she'd done something stupid and had bad news for him. He'd never seen her like that before, and he'd seen her at her wit's end in very dire circumstances. So he let her have some time alone as he put together a plan of action, which included a few ineffectual attempts to coax and then threaten her out of the bathroom.

Realizing she was a lost cause - _disappointing_ \- he knew it was time to take control of the situation himself. Harley was of the opinion that 'recuperating' meant staying in bed and letting your body do the hard work while you waited. The Joker was of a different opinion, and he'd done enough waiting.

The sky was just starting to get light outside when he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen, his first foray out of the bedroom in four days. He hunted around in the fridge for food, finishing off the leftovers before reluctantly downing half a carton of the green vegetable water. Remarkably, it perked him up, but he would never admit that out loud.

Next, he turned to the duffle bag of medical supplies and fished out a bag of saline. He plugged it into the IV still embedded in his arm and slung the bag around his neck as a makeshift drip stand, then started pacing between the living room and the bedroom, forcing his body to _work._

It wasn't so much the walking as the sitting down and standing up and twisting that was giving him trouble. He still felt weak from the blood loss, though it was at a level he was able to push through now, he wasn't _quite_ up to kicking down the bathroom door and dragging Harley out by her hair, tempting as it was.

Remarkably, the wounds that nearly killed him were hardly bothering him, his forearms on the way to healing beneath bandages. No, it was the _stab_ wound that was fucking him up. A few nips of tequila stashed in the cupboard helped that too, along with the rest of the green water, which he swigged as he shuffled around the apartment, making his body work for him, and _thinking_.

It had taken much longer to get back on his feet after his previous near-death experience, and his feelings toward the person responsible that time—Harley— were predictably different.

This time, that country club _jackass_ Roman Sionis was to blame. Was the Joker angry Sionis tried to put him in the ground? Ya know, he couldn't quite _tell_. Between the drama Harley was causing him in the present and his focus on getting in fighting shape, there wasn't a whole lot of _space_ left in his head for being pissed off about nearly being killed by a trust fund brigade brat with a taste for torture.

But that wasn't _all_ Sionis had done. The Joker's thoughts turned toward the _many_ things Roman said to Harley in the crypt. Those memories _flashed_ before his mind's eye, demanding his undivided attention as they'd been doing in waves since consciousness returned to him.

What Sionis had intended to _do_ to her.

How he _touched_ her.

Like he was _entitled_ to her.

And the cherry on top: that asshole was why Harley was in the state she was now. The Joker couldn't tell what pissed him off more—Sionis' original plan for Harley or the _mess_ he'd already made of her, leaving the Joker to put her back together again.

It took a lot to make the Joker angry. _Irritated_ was easy. Frustrated, also not too hard. _Angry_ was a higher plane, but it seemed _Black Mask_ had a talent for getting him there.

The Joker's eye started to twitch as he paced, a black cloud settling on his back, oppressive and suffocating. It made it hard to think straight or focus as he alternated between fantasizing about killing Sionis, to frustration with Harley and the situation at hand, to fixating on the night at the crypt when she begged for his life, back to killing Sionis very _creatively_ again.

He snarled and ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket, then pivoted into the kitchen to grab his cigarettes and light one off the stove.

He turned on the news to distract himself and get an idea of what was going on in the outside world. The top story was about two rich kids who'd been murdered in Robinson Park the night before, resulting in a heavy police presence in the area as they hunted for the killer.

That pulled an irritated growl out of him as he put two and two together.

_Harley._

He could hear Lee and Ed whispering together all morning. That was an intriguing development. The Joker had seen it before, hostages becoming _pals_. Sometimes the most unexpected people would bond in desperate situations when they thought they were going to die. Generally speaking, the Joker gave very little thought to hostages. They were there to serve a purpose, and very rarely did that purpose require them to do anything other than be alive-ish.

This was not one of those times. He and Harley were down on their luck. She was currently curled up in the fetal position in the bathroom, and he was sucking up bags of saline and learning to walk again. This was one of those times where Harley's capacity to get people to love her was greatly needed. This was one of those times where a _Happy_ Hostage was a _Useful_ Hostage.

But she was out of commission at the moment, so it was up to him.

Two bags of fluids and another jug of the green stuff later, and the Joker was ready to eat again. He sidled up to Lee and Ed in the bathroom, leaning against the door frame and offering them his most charming smirk.

Lee was handcuffed to the radiator, sitting on a throw pillow with another one behind her back, and Ed was sprawled out in the bathtub with a few more pillows and a blanket, his wrist handcuffed to a pipe. He'd changed into sweatpants, but he was still wearing a blood-stained dress shirt. There was a laptop sitting on the closed toilet seat, playing a sitcom with a laugh track.

What _cozy_ looking hostages they had.

"Well, look at you two _bosom_ buddies," the Joker drawled, offering Lee a smile, one he specifically used when he wanted food. "I hear _you're_ the one who's been rustling up all that grub for us."

"Oh," Lee glanced at Ed, who widened his eyes encouragingly. "Yes," she said, looking back up at the Joker.

"Well, _listen_ ," J made his best sympathetic face—admittedly, it needed some work, but Harley thought it was funny, which had to count for something. "Harley's a little bit… tuckered _out_ , so I'm thinkin' you could uh, work your magic again, doc."

He held up the key to her handcuffs, twirling it around his index finger with his eyebrows raised, laying on the charm nice and thick.

Harley thought the Joker didn't understand the politics of human nature. That was how she put it, at least. But she was wrong. He wasn't inclined to _pander_ to people, but he was more than capable of taking advantage of those… _predictable_ reactions if necessary. What he had in front of him here was a golden opportunity to foster some gold old fashioned _loyalty._

At least with _one_ of them. Maybe both.

"Sure," Lee smiled weakly, and the Joker tossed her the key, not quite up to bending or squatting yet as he leaned against the wall, watching closely as she unlocked herself. She shot Ed a sidelong look, then handed the key back to the Joker and shuffled out of the bathroom when he gestured for her to.

The Joker eyeballed Ed warily and was intrigued to discover the little weirdo was staring at his crotch, transfixed. Maybe fucking with him, or maybe genuinely curious. Who wouldn't be? The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth, a few fun ideas for killing Ed skittering through his brain before he turned back to Lee, who was waiting patiently in the hallway.

"I, um, do you want to change your clothes?" she asked uncertainly, trying to be nice and helpful so they'd keep her alive when this was all over. _Smart_.

"Ya know, that'd be just _great_ ," the Joker purred, giving her another rakish smirk. "You got anything in my _size_?"

"My ex was a little shorter than you," Lee replied, looking embarrassed as she shuffled past him into a back room full of boxes, a twin bed and a dresser crammed in among them. "And fatter," she added, making the Joker chuckle as he watched her dig through an open box. She pulled out a pair of gray suit trousers and offered them to him awkwardly.

" _Thank you_ , Lee," the Joker purred graciously—or the closest he was capable of. "Ya know, me and Harley," he glanced at the wall, which Harley was on the other side of, being a fucking drama queen. "We _really_ appreciate everything you're doing."

He had to fight back a giggle as he said this.

"It's okay," Lee smiled, the fact that she'd be dead if she hadn't helped only _just_ looming over them.

"And Ed," the Joker sighed performatively, staring down the hallway. "Well, I dunno what _he'd_ do without you."

"I know," Lee nodded, looking more certain about this fact. Ah, because she _cared_ , and because Ed was pretty damn good too, the slippery little weasel.

"Uh huh," the Joker caught her eye, searching her face for those little tics that would reveal what she was thinking. "I don't suppose you could uh, go grab some food for us, could ya?"

Her eyes widened incredulously, a little scared too.

"Go… buy food?"

"Mmhmm," the Joker cocked his head to the side, watching her struggle with the fact that she was being handed the opportunity for freedom, though she was expected to hand it back.

"Okay," Lee agreed with another weak smile. "I'll just get my purse."

" _Great_ ," the Joker drawled, making a sweeping gesture for her to get a move on.

As expected, Lee _did_ come back and settled into the kitchen to make food.

It was basic math. She had developed a sympathetic bond with Ed and didn't want to leave him—Ed's own good work, it had to be said—and she felt sorry for Harley, _and_ she didn't have the balls to run off to the cops after harboring terrorists in her home for four days. What was she going to say, they let me go? She wanted to stay alive and out of police custody, and to her mind, that meant helping the _dangerous_ people who actually didn't seem all that bad once you got to know them.

See? The _politics_ of human nature.

Harley pulled herself out of the bathroom around about this time and sullenly informed him that Lonnie had been kidnapped by Roman, and yeah, she'd killed the kids in the park by accident.

Fucking fantastic.

The Joker could think of two responses. One was to _knock_ some sense into her, which he'd never come closer to doing than he was right then. The other was to get the hell away from her because just _looking_ at her was pissing him off.

She understood this and hid in the bedroom all day while the Joker took up residence in the living room, socializing and flirting with Lee to make her feel special, and chain-smoking while he thought over their situation—which was, admittedly, the worst one they'd been in yet.

No men, no weapons, no money, the people that knew their secrets were missing, flipped, or kidnapped, and anyone useful they _may_ have called on could easily be working for Roman. Not to mention, the upstanding half of the city was hunting them in the wake of the City Hall massacre, and the entire underbelly was hunting for them on Roman's behalf. Now their immediate location was tenuous thanks to the dead kids.

The Joker had one, maybe two ideas to get them out of it. Basically, one workable one.

And he was going to need Harley functioning at top speed to do it.

It was getting dark when he hobbled back into the bedroom to find her going through Lee's closet. She was wearing a pajama top that was too big for her but showed off _miles_ of fantastically long, slender legs. She was looking morose, with dark circles under her eyes, her hair a tangled mess, and she glared at him suspiciously as he pushed the door shut.

The Joker crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with a pointed look.

"So uh," he flapped his hand at her, his lip curling. "This is how it's gonna be from now on, huh?"

"What?" she snapped, her blue eyes flashing.

Because she _wanted_ a fight.

"You bein' all… _mopey_ ," he sneered. "You got any idea how _disappointing_ you are? _Huh?"_

"Disappointing?" Harley dropped the dress she'd been looking at and rotated around to face him squarely, her teeth grinding together.

"I _know,_ I _know_ ," he sing-songed, antagonizing her. "You've got all your _feelings_. Just a _needy_ little girl who can't fuckin' _handle_ herself when it comes down to it."

"Fuck you!" Harley snapped, her head tipping back so she could scowl up at him.

"That's about all you're good for anyway," he sneered back at her. "Looks like my boys were right about you _after_ all."

Harley scowled and shoved him in the chest, making him chuckle cruelly as he swayed back then took a step closer to her.

"Let's face it, _honey bunny,_ " he gave her cheek a rough pat that almost qualified as a slap, making her flinch and scowl again. "Without me, you'd still be _poor_ little Dr Quinzel."

"You arrogant asshole," she sneered, swatting his hand away. "Without me, you'd be fucking _dead_."

"Funny how I only end up almost-dead _because_ of you," he barked back at her.

"Why the hell do I put up with your bullshit!" she spat indignantly. "You're _insane_!"

"Which one of us killed a couple kids by _accident_ ," he demanded, getting in her face. "Sounds like something someone _crazy_ does to me."

"I'm _not_ crazy," she seethed, shoving him in the chest again, harder this time.

"You're outta your _league_ , baby doll," he snapped, pushing her back without much force, but still hard enough to make her stumble into the dresser.

She huffed indignantly, her eyes lighting up with cold fury.

Then she launched herself at him with a frustrated shout, shoving him back on the bed. The Joker landed with a wince that he hid beneath a growl as she jumped on top of him, and before he could decide if throwing her off was a viable option in his current state, she was holding a knife to his throat, her eyes bright as she scowled down at him.

"You think I won't do it!" she yelped, grabbing his jaw and forcing his head back.

"Of course you fuckin' won't," he snarled into the bedding.

Harley was okay with a knife.

The Joker was much better.

With a few quick moves, he disarmed her and turned the knife on her, popping two buttons off her shirt and poking her just above her navel with the point of the blade. She sucked in a startled breath and sat back, but he followed her, pressing the tip of the knife to her stomach, just a _fraction_ shy of actually cutting her.

He felt her feet shift where they were tucked up against his knees—her toes pointing and flexing, then pointing again.

One of her most obvious tells when she was turned on.

The Joker threw the knife on the floor and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head down to his, hardly noticing the pain from his stab wound as their mouths collided. Their teeth knocked together, and she bit down on his lip, prompting him to pull her hair until she gasped and a few platinum strands came loose. He shoved his tongue in her mouth and she dug her nails into his shoulders, scratching him as she started grinding against him. He realized she wasn't wearing underwear, which almost immediately got his dick hard as he felt her rub herself against his thigh. He snuck a hand between them to touch her, growling happily into her mouth when he felt how wet she already was. He couldn't decide if it was from fighting with him or the thirty-odd seconds he'd been kissing her, but _God_ , he hoped it was both.

She sat back abruptly, her lips parted as she fumbled to get his pants unzipped and down far enough to pull his cock out, then batted his hand out of the way as she guided him between her legs without delay.

The Joker's hands slid up her thighs to wrap around her hips, a rough sound escaping his throat when she sank down his length, her body and tight around him. He dug his fingers into her waist, his blunt nails leaving red half-moons on her soft skin as she planted both her hands on his chest and started to fuck him hard and fast, the bed squeaking around them.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she whined, closing her eyes and pushing him down into the bed. Her hips slammed into his harder and harder as she took out all her frustration and misery and every other stupid fucking feeling she had on him.

Which was the whole point of this entire exercise anyway.

To get her a little _relief_.

It became clear that this was going to be quick, and as the Joker's heart started to pound in his throat, he reached between them to rub her clit, not being especially gentle about it. She made a whiny, breathless sound and sat back to grant him better access, bracing her hands on his thighs behind her as she bounced up and down erratically, her eyelids fluttering.

Then she pitched forward suddenly, one of her hands landing on his ribs, sending a sliver of pain dashing through the Joker's brain. He ignored it and pulled her down on him harder, his breathing shallow as his body tensed in anticipation of release.

" _Fuck…_ I'm gonna cum," he warned her gruffly, which was apparently all she needed to hear.

She released a string of loud, happy sounds, bucking against him as she came on his cock, her body rippling around him, _sinfully_ good. The Joker released a heavy breath as he came inside her, euphoria washing over him in one sharp, bright wave that made his teeth grind together.

She was still pressing him into the bed, one of her hands firmly on his chest, the other, unfortunately, wrapped around his side where he'd been stabbed. The Joker could feel blood trickling on the bed beneath him, not a dangerous amount, but she'd helped him pop some stitches. She was still trying to catch her breath when she realized he was bleeding, her eyes widening in horror.

The Joker growled, frustrated—could he not catch _one_ fucking break?—and grabbed her by the collar of her pajama top, yanking her back down to him to kiss her. She tried to squirm away for about, oh, _three_ seconds before giving up and kissing him back eagerly. Her fingers wound into his hair and her tongue slid against his, and finally, _finally_ , he felt her start to relax—to _give in_ to him.

She hummed quietly against his lips, then pulled back to look at him with a sleepy smile.

"Better?" he asked her smugly, and she nodded slowly, her smile growing.

"I'm impressed," she croaked reluctantly, and the Joker raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "You were almost dead four days ago," she pointed out. "And yet…"

She glanced down to where they were still joined, and he shrugged modestly, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

The Joker flat out _loved it_ when Harley stroked his ego, something she was generally reluctant to do.

She peeled back the bandage below his ribs to get a look at his injury, using the tail of her shirt to wipe away the fresh blood.

"You're fine," she announced.

The Joker stretched his arms over his head and rolled his head in a circle, feeling pretty fucking fantastic despite the discomfort of having a hole in his side and his arms cut to shit.

" _I_ know that," he told her slyly. "See? I know what I need to get better more than _Nurse Harley_ does."

"Uh huh," Harley smirked and rolled off him, landing on her side. "Nurse Harley is only interested in making sure you don't _die_ ," she informed him haughtily.

"Nurse Harley's a _bitch_ ," he countered, making her giggle sweetly, and they shared a nice long look before she sighed, looking concerned again.

"What are we gonna do, J?" she asked quietly.

"I got an idea," he told her, chuckling when her face lit up. Aw, she had such _faith_ in him. "You're not gonna like it," he warned her.

"How much am I not gonna like it?" she narrowed her eyes.

"Mmm," he wrinkled his nose. "You're gonna hate _everything_ about it."

"Great," she sighed and rolled onto her back, folding her hands over her stomach as she stared at the ceiling. "Alright, let's hear it."

* * *

After saying farewell to Vicki, Frost picked up the old station wagon and headed to the Cauldron neighborhood on the Eastside to grab himself a beer at Grin and Bare It. These days it was run by Molly Sullivan, one of Alexandra Kosov's top lieutenants and the new head of the Irish mafia.

Frost had done a few jobs for Molly back when she used to run an underground poker racket, and he was hopeful he could get some answers out of her. Obviously, saying he worked for the Joker was a non-starter, so he twisted the truth just a _little_ , saying he had some questions for Alexandra about the protection prices being charged downtown. Which he honestly did.

"That's Gotham proper, Jonny," Molly pointed out in her east coast drawl. "That's Ms Lucy's territory these days. Alexandra runs the Eastside."

"C'mon, Molly," Frost cajoled. "These boys are straight. They tried talkin' to Ms Lucy but she don't give a shit about her people, not like Alexandra does."

"Mm hm," Molly hummed dubiously. "Alright, I'll tell ya what. She's holdin' court at the Old Bowery Station tonight. You get there soon you might catch her before she closes up shop."

It was about midnight when Frost pulled up out front the Old Bowery Station, which was very changed since he'd last been there, looking for Holiday on Christmas Day. Before, there'd been a collection of kids armed with mismatched firearms out front. Now there were real thugs standing guard - Russians, Ukrainians, Puerto Ricans, Irish, Chinese, Italians, and everyone in between - they all worked for Alexandra these days.

Frost gave the thugs guarding the front door the same lie he'd given Molly, and they checked him for weapons before allowing him inside the station.

There were dogs barking and music playing loudly, and a huge congregation of people. Men and women were waiting their turn to speak to Alexandra Kosov where she sat on a platform at the far side of the room, looking more like a queen than any mob boss Frost had met before.

Alexandra was an imposing woman, both in stature and personality, though she couldn't have been older than twenty-five. She was at least six feet tall, her blonde hair tied back in two stubby french braids, and she wore lime green tracksuit bottoms with steel-toed boots, a wife-beater, showing off a pair of ropey, well-muscled arms.

Sitting around her on dilapidated sofas and armchairs were a group of her closest advisors. To her right sat a svelte black girl with a shaved head, and to her left sat a scraggly-looking middle-aged Russian who smoked one filterless cigarette after the next while spitting chewing tobacco.

Frost waited his turn as people lined up to get paid, get given jobs, or just generally complain, though it was always done respectfully. He couldn't help thinking that despite her reputation as a socialist-anarchist who looked after her people, Alexandra was running a pretty queenly operation. Not that Frost was especially well versed in political science.

When it was Frost's turn, he stepped up to the dais, eyeballing the group above him warily until Alexandra gestured for him to speak.

"Ms Kosov," he nodded to her, feeling like maybe he should bow.

"Good evening, comrade," she drawled in lightly-accented English, her eyes narrowing. "I don't know you."

"My name's Jonny Frost, ma'am," Frost met her steely gray eyes as he prepared himself. "I work for the Joker."

Alexandra stood abruptly, her advisors muttering amongst each other while the people in line behind Frost shot one another wary looks.

" _You_ work for _Joker_?" Alexandra sneered. "Have you come here to die, Frost?"

"No, ma'am," Frost braced himself. "I came to talk to ya about your boss… Black Mask."

* * *

It was Ed's fourth day in the bathroom, and it had been the best one yet.

Sure, he was still stuck in a bathtub, his wrist chained to a pipe, giving him just enough range of movement to use the toilet. Unlike Lee, he had not been allowed to clean himself up post-blood-bath or get up and walk around, although Lee had provided him with a pair of her ex-fiancé's sweatpants.

But none of that compared to the horrible, stinging _boredom_. It was like having needles forced under your fingernails, in your _eyes_ , in your _brain_ , relentless and _never-ending_.

But then Harley let them have a laptop, and for the briefest of moments, they thought she'd made an error in judgment by giving them access to the outside world. But _nope_ , Harley was smart enough to have turned off the WiFi router before giving them technology.

_Luckily,_ Lee had all seven seasons of Golden Girls on her laptop.

Ed _knew_ they would be good friends.

Thank God for Lee. She was his savior. At first he hadn't thought much of her aside from the fact that the gray streak in her hair was very chic. Then she listened to him talk about Harley, and it felt so _good_ to get it off his chest, to have someone to talk to aside from his Grannie, who was almost ninety and sometimes forgot who he was. But Lee could respond and ask him questions about himself, and Ed quickly worked out what words and topics and gestures and faces made her like him more.

He complained about bartending and how it had been downright impossible to stay out of trouble with the mob, eventually leading to him doing jobs for Boris Kosov and the Odessa gang so he didn't get flat out murdered. But it turned out he made a pretty good criminal even though he always believed he was destined for more, and how lately he'd felt like he was _so_ close to finally figuring it out. Lee found it all fascinating, and Ed agreed it was pretty glamorous.

Eventually, he asked her about herself, and she told him a charming story about being engaged to a cop who couldn't stay out of trouble, so she'd left him at the altar. He even got her to admit that the sex had been pretty lackluster, which made them both giggle. And then she told him she'd pretty much been alone ever since.

She was lonely, she needed him, and she _loved_ having him around to keep her company. And Ed loved nothing more than being needed and loved.

Well, _worshiped_ was better, but Lee was so nice, needed and loved were a better fit.

Then that morning, they heard the Joker puttering around the apartment, muttering to himself and sounding malcontent. Ed and Lee whispered together, using the _Golden Girls_ laugh track for cover as they tried to figure out what would happen now that he was up and moving around. Then a few hours later they were treated to a _visit_ from the Joker himself.

He'd leaned against the door frame and offered them a roguish smirk, a downright _naughty_ twinkle in his eye.

He still looked like shit, pale and tired, and all bandaged up. But despite all of that, he was managing to look _very_ tasty as far as Ed was concerned. He was wearing bloodied tuxedo trousers still, and the top button had gone missing during the frantic scramble to save his life. Ed couldn't _not_ stare at the wiry hairs disappearing beneath the zipper of his pants and he really, _reeeeeeallly_ wanted to know what else was down there.

He wanted to know _so_ bad.

The Joker was there in Harley's place to cajole Lee into making them food, which obviously took minimal effort. What was she going to do? Say _no_? Still, he laid it on _really_ thick, which was both hilarious and _very_ sexy. _Purring_ at Lee, all shirtless and dangerous and _sneaky_.

Oh, _my,_ Ed thought.

On his way out, the Joker shot Ed a withering look and rubbed a hand over his ribs where there was a bandage curving around his side. Ed's attention was immediately drawn to all the lean, wiry abdominal muscles before his gaze shifted lower, curiosity distracting him from the death threat being silently communicated to him as he wondered how big the Joker's dick was. Probably huge. Ed was pretty good about guessing these things.

Stuck in the bathroom, Ed listened intently as Lee found the Joker a pair of her cop ex-boyfriend's pants to change into before they moved into the kitchen. Not many minutes later, Lee reappeared, the Joker hovering behind her in the hall.

"Um, I'm going to the store," she told Ed, looking bemused. "Do you want anything?"

Ed's eyes widened.

They were letting her _leave_?

"Malibu," he said morosely, his bottom lip sticking out as all the good feelings were swept away because now Lee was leaving, and he was going to be alone. He had gotten used to her, and now she was being taken _away_ from him.

Ed sat back in the bathtub and pouted as a new worry surfaced. When Lee went to the cops, she would bring them back here, and even though the Joker was looking creaky, he was walking, which meant he and Harley could escape while Ed would be served up to the cops on a silver platter.

He didn't want to believe Lee would do that to him, but how could she not? Ed nearly started crying to express his frustration—no _actual_ tears were coming, but he sure could be as loud as he wanted—as he started imagining what being locked up in Arkham would be like. Arkham would be the best-case scenario. Worst case scenario would be Blackgate.

Ed was too delicate for somewhere like Blackgate.

Oh, _God_.

But then, not a half an hour later, the front door opened and Lee returned.

She came back.

Was she _crazy?_

How had the Joker known she'd come back?

Had she come back for _Ed_?

Ed waited with bated breath until she appeared in the doorway to the bathroom again, holding up a bottle of Malibu triumphantly.

"Ready for a cocktail?" she grinned, and Ed nearly did sob at that.

So the remainder of the day was spent in remarkable luxury or as much luxury as you could have handcuffed to a bathtub. Ed drank coconut rum and watched Golden Girls while Lee made boeuf bourguignon, coming through with the spoon asking Ed to taste it and everything.

Ed could hear the Joker making conversation with her too, Harley apparently so 'tuckered out' that she wasn't leaving the bedroom. There was definitely something going on there. A twist in the plot. Something that had forced the Joker to recover faster.

When he handcuffed Lee to the radiator again, the Joker smirked caddishly and wagged a finger at them both.

"You two kids have fun," he said slyly. "Don't do anything _I_ wouldn't."

When he was gone, Lee and Ed looked at each other, bewildered.

The rest of the evening passed in much the same way, up until another fight broke out in the bedroom, prompting Ed to pause the laptop so they could listen.

Ostensibly, Lee and Ed were supposed to be listening for clues about what was going to happen to them. In reality, they were listening because it was _fascinating_ to hear Harley and the Joker fight, which they'd been doing regularly for the past four days. Sometimes it was more like bickering, other times a brief screaming match, but _this_ was a real fight. It sounded much more heated, their voices pitching higher, making Lee wince when Harley's voice came hoarse and ragged through the walls.

"You know, when he woke up that first day," Lee whispered, widening her eyes. "They were arguing about _sheets_."

"Sheets?" Ed hissed, fascinated.

"Yeah," Lee shrugged, bewildered. "She wanted to change the sheets and he was grumpy about it. Almost as if it's something she does all the time, you know?"

Ed's eyes widened. "That is _so_ weird."

"I know," Lee agreed, and they paused again to listen as the shouting got louder and then abruptly cut off.

"What do you think happened?" Ed whispered loudly. "Did she kill him?"

"No," Lee made a face. "What would she—"

Then they both heard it: the bed squeaking and muted, breathless, _sex_ sounds.

Ed's mouth fell open in a happy gasp and Lee shot him a reproachful look, moving to turn the laptop back on.

"We shouldn't listen," she tisked, looking amused.

"How is he doing that?" Ed whispered, amazed. "He was almost dead four days ago!"

"He seems to be very," Lee pressed her lips together to stop herself from smiling. "Healthy," she said, making Ed burst into giggles. "It's actually _remarkable_ , from a medical standpoint," she added, trying to be serious.

But then the sounds coming from the bedroom got louder.

"Oh, my God," Ed nearly squealed, throwing a hand over his mouth as Lee struggled not to laugh.

"We shouldn't listen," she admonished again, snickering herself.

Before Ed could say that of _course_ they should listen, they were hostages and had every right… Harley started making some very _loud,_ happy sounds. Lee and Ed could only gape at one another until it was over, and they both collapsed into giggles, trying to be quiet because who the hell knew what they would do if they knew they'd been listening.

Lee turned the laptop back on, shaking her head as Ed's giggles subsided, and he gulped down another mouthful of coconut rum, stretching his hand out to Lee.

"I wish we could cuddle," he sighed, making puppy dog eyes at her.

By now he'd figured out which faces and voices and words Lee found cute or endearing, and as expected, she offered him a warm, _genuine_ smile. She scooted away from the radiator as far as she could so she could hold Ed's hand, and they sat there in companionable silence, holding hands as they watched _Golden Girls._

That was how Harley found them when she emerged from the bedroom about an hour later, looking more alive than Ed had seen her in days. Her blue eyes were bright, her platinum hair mussed and fluffy, and she was dressed bizarrely in a blood-stained pajama top and bright blue leggings.

"Lee, I think J may have popped some stitches," Harley said, her face the picture of innocence. "He's decided not to stay in bed anymore."

"Oh," Lee said, her face a picture of innocence too. "He shouldn't do anything too strenuous."

Ed nearly died trying not to laugh.

"He doesn't really listen to me," Harley said drily. "Can you come take a look?"

"Sure," Lee agreed with another warm smile, less nervous than she usually was around Harley.

Harley unlocked the handcuffs and stepped back, gesturing for Lee to squeeze past her out of the bathroom, leaving Ed and Harley alone.

Ed sat up a little straighter, sensing something was about to happen as Harley closed the laptop and set it on the sink. She met his eye, the faintest of smiles dancing on her lips as she took a seat on the closed toilet and crossed her legs.

"We should talk," she suggested, lacing her hands together and resting them on her knees.

"Okay," Ed agreed, unsure where this was going but nervous and _excited_ about it _._

"I think we should re-examine our relationship," Harley said diplomatically. "You fucked us over, and then you helped us. In my book, that makes us square."

"Really?" Ed asked warily, immediately suspicious.

"Sure," Harley shrugged without looking away from him. "You didn't just screw us over, Ed. You screwed Roman over too. You beat him over the head with a stool and helped us escape. You let us slip _right_ through his fingers."

She feigned a wince, and though Ed was aware she was manipulating him and ramping up to something, there was no getting around the fact that she was right.

"He's going to want you dead, Ed. And he controls the whole city," she sighed, her eyes darting off to the side like she was _sad_. "The good guys, the bad guys, and everyone in between. They _all_ work for Roman."

Ed swallowed thickly, finding it nearly impossible to look away from her as she spoke.

Like she could feel his stare, she rolled her eyes back to him.

"Everyone but the three of us," she said slyly. "And I don't know about you… but J and I want Roman _dead_."

"I might want that too," Ed said cautiously, trying to maintain some dignity even though his heart was pounding with excitement. "What do you have in mind?"

"I have a friend who might be able to help us," Harley said lightly. "Vicki Vale."

"The reporter?" Ed's eyes widened. "She's _your_ friend?"

"Friend is a… _flexible_ word," Harley scrunched up her nose cheekily. "She'll help us, though. If _you_ convince her to."

Ed inhaled sharply, realizing what was happening.

"So you're saying…" he said slowly, not looking away from her. "You want to team up?"

"How about a truce," Harley suggested.

"A _temporary_ team-up," Ed countered, and to his great delight, Harley cracked a small, _genuine_ smile.

"We work together on this, and we don't fuck each other over until Roman's dead," she agreed, raising her eyebrows appraisingly. "Then it's open season again." Her smile turned a little coy as she held Ed's gaze. "Those are the squad rules."

She was pandering to him. Manipulating him. Ed knew it, but he didn't care. He had goosebumps for God's sake. So he did the only thing he could. He gave her his biggest, sassiest smile.

"Squad rules," he agreed, holding up his handcuffed wrist and jangling it at her. "Well come on, mommy. Let's get started."

* * *

**A/N:** **Crackfic where Ed embroiders _"A Happy Hostage is a Useful Hostage"_ on a cushion for J for Xmas. Harley would never in a million years do it, not even in a crackfic.**

**Oooh! It is all uphill from here! Kinda... with the obvious kicking-off-the-third-act-step-backward, of course.**

**I love love love J's point of view in this. It's so revealing about how he feels about Harley. There will be much more of that to come.**

**_Next: Ed talks to Vicki while Harley and the Joker get some… alone time._ **

**Next week is about 50% smut, and it is the smuttiest smut I have ever written. Harley told you the makeup sex was always great. Now you get to see it. I'm a little nervous, if I'm honest, lol.**

**Please comment & review! It's the best way to thank me for this monstrosity, lol. **

**xo**


	17. Chapter 17

_Theme: Charlotte Gainsbourg - 'Deadly Valentine' (Soulwax Remix) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/wISc326_7OM)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/57KDDGijeqbwsiBOhdo4PT?si=Sh5E1V03QN-ev50cSljbdg))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

17.

* * *

Once Ed was unchained from the bathtub, he was allowed to shower and Lee gave him some of her ex-fiancé's clothes to wear. The pants were ridiculously short on his long frame, and the shirt cut into his armpits, but worst of all, the pants were from Nordstrom Rack, and the shirt was… _Kirkland Brand._

Then they all sat down in the living room to catch up. Well, Harley sat, the Joker—or _J,_ as he was known to his friends, which now included Ed—loitered near the window, shirtless and barefoot, and chain-smoking like it was going out of style, giving Ed plenty of chances to ogle him.

It made sense that _J_ would be all long and lean and lanky, and _strong_ and hard-looking and _sexy_ in this weird, _dark,_ feral kind of way. He'd developed some angry red scratches on his shoulders, no doubt a thank you from Harley, possibly another clue to the question of _size_ that so plagued Ed. But J seemed to be wearing the scratches proudly, or at least he didn't care what Ed and Lee thought about them.

_Anyway._

While Lee pulled together food for dinner, Harley went over what they already knew, and unlike their last rushed planning session near the docks, Ed got a glimpse of how her mind really worked—organized, strategic, _very_ Type A. It clashed with the whole chaotic, sexy terrorist vibe the Joker gave off, but also made some _weird_ kind of cosmic sense.

"Here's what we know," Harley announced, all business. "Roman introduced Blue Orchid to Gotham to keep the mob under his thumb. That's Lucy on the main island and Alexandra Kosov on the Eastside. They're all making good money and he's _advising_ them on how to keep their businesses clean-looking."

Ed nodded along eagerly.

"We know he's installing Hamilton Hill as Mayor," she continued. "In a matter of days, Roman will be able to put his own DA and his own police commissioner in office, and then he'll control City Hall _and_ the GCPD."

She glanced at Ed to see if he was keeping up, and he beamed and nodded again.

"We also know Roman has an irrational life-long obsession with the Wayne family and wants to take over Wayne Enterprises with help from John Daggett," Harley narrowed her eyes at Ed, watching him closely. "And that's where we get in his way."

"With Vicki Vale's help?" Ed asked, getting excited. "So, what, we use her to get to Bruce? Use Bruce to lure in Roman?"

"Mm, I kinda like that better," J drawled, prompting Ed to flash him a smile, which was not reciprocated in the slightest.

"Me too," Harley agreed. "But we're going to need to be more… subtle to get this to work."

" _Subtle_ ," Ed and the Joker scoffed in unison, making Harley's eyes widen as she looked between them, a little disturbed.

Ed swung around to beam at J, who just snarled back at him.

"Anyway," Harley continued warily. "Roman has also… _stolen_ a little something of ours."

Ed spun back around to face her, his eyes wide and curious about this new development.

" _Stole_ something from you?"

"Someone," Harley shrugged like she didn't care. "A hacker who does jobs for us."

She wasn't being completely honest, Ed could tell, so he decided to poke around.

"What's this hacker's name?" he asked slyly, and the pause that followed was just long enough to confirm this was a bigger deal than they were admitting to.

"He's called…" Harley made a face. "Anarky."

"Of course he is," Ed smiled complacently. "Don't you think it's probably a trap to _lure_ you back in so Roman can try to make you his girlfriend again?"

"No," Harley said sourly, obviously not enjoying the sarcasm. "When Roman was _regaling_ us with his evil plan, he _told_ me Anarky would help him take over Wayne."

"Hmm," Ed stroked his chin like a cartoon villain. "Oooh, ya know, _maybe_ Roman thinks Anarky's the one who hacked Kane and Dumas and Wayne during the Thanksgiving Riots, and _that's_ why he's so convinced Anarky can take down Wayne."

Ed saw Harley's eyes dart to the Joker, and he didn't need to see J's face to know they were silently communicating something to each other. They hadn't thought about that, and Ed's heart nearly split in half with happiness that he'd impressed them.

That _one_ little look—the most dangerous people in Gotham were surprised, impressed, maybe even in _awe_ of Ed's intellectual prowess—that one look made the whole _bathtub_ thing totally worth it.

"But Wayne's a privately owned company with a board of directors," Ed continued, wrinkling his nose as he thought it through. "You can't just like, _hack_ the shareholders to devalue their stock options." Then he stopped, thinking again. "Unless you introduced some kind of virus to manipulate their market trading by making bad investments…"

Ed looked up to see Harley squinting at him suspiciously.

"What?" he asked, defensive.

"You're a bartender," Harley said warily. "How do you know anything about computers or stock options?"

"Um, I also have a photographic memory, _Harley,"_ Ed scoffed, fighting back a squeal of delight when she looked surprised—and _maybe_ impressed—again.

"You have a—wait, never mind," she shook her head. "This is what we need Vicki for. We need her to find out what kind of damage Anarky can really do and warn them. She should be able to get behind the scenes at Wayne through Bruce."

"Then what?" Ed leaned forward eagerly.

"Then we get in Roman's way," Harley said confidently. "We don't let him or Daggett get what they want from Wayne."

"And then what?" Ed pressed, making Harley's eyes narrow, annoyed.

"Then we take out the False Face Society, one by one," she said stiffly. "We take away Roman's _toys._ "

"How?" Ed cocked his head to the side and this time Harley scowled outright at him.

"When we get there, we'll reassess and get creative," she pitched forward, holding Ed's gaze intently. "Sometimes, the best plan is no plan at all. If you let things play out and bluff your way through it, people won't see you coming. We stir up some chaos, fly low when we have to, play to our strengths, and we _win_."

Ed's breath caught—he was being _preached_ to by Harley Quinn. He was getting the full _chaos_ indoctrination. She was teaching him. _Guiding_ him to victory by her side.

"Okay," he agreed, nodding enthusiastically as Lee brought over a pot of something that smelled like saffron and garlic.

"I need to sleep," Harley announced, rubbing her hands over her face as the Joker flicked the butt of his latest cigarette out the window. Then they both walked into Lee's bedroom without another word and slammed the door shut behind them, leaving Lee and Ed staring after them.

 _"Rude_ ," Ed tisked, a little bit disappointed that they weren't all going to sit down and eat dinner together like one big happy family. Okay, that may have been asking a _bit_ much, but it would have been nice.

Ed slept on the couch while Lee took the bed in her spare room, and Ed listened in the dark for the Joker and Harley to talk or fuck or do something, but it appeared they were just sleeping. Boring.

Then in the morning, Harley reappeared, not looking particularly refreshed, and wearing a sporty combination of the electric-blue leggings from the day before with a neon orange sports bra, showing off a very hot little body indeed. Ed pouted at her flat stomach, jealous because he had this little _pooch_ that he just _couldn't_ get rid of.

Sadly, J did not take part in the morning's lesson—because it _was_ a lesson—but having Harley dressed like Work Out Barbie as she explained her relationship with Vicki Vale more than made up for the lack of a hunky half-naked terrorist.

And Ed felt _so_ special that she was sharing with him. She didn't really have a choice if he was going to be her liaison with Vicki, but she'd _chosen_ him to be that liaison. She _needed_ him to know everything. And that meant she told him allllll about her past with Vicki, including, to Ed's sheer delight, how to manipulate her.

She was teaching him again. Guiding him. And she _needed_ him. Like a _mother_.

Mommy Harley.

"This is a test, isn't it?" he asked her slyly, sliding on his bloodied dress shoes from the fundraiser while Harley watched. "It's not just about getting Vicki to warn Wayne?"

Harley hummed dubiously, her expression giving nothing away as she handed over Lee's old Blackberry, which Ed would be using to stay in touch for the day.

"If it is a test," she met his eye, challenging him. "Then you better pass it."

* * *

Once Ed left, Harley seemed to deflate, the confidence that she was in control and knew what she was doing leaking out of her, leaving her anxious and antsy and feeling trapped, her big brain working overtime, which made the Joker reach for his cigarettes and zero in on the news because that energy was the fucking _worst_.

Was it risky sending Ed out into the world? _Sure_. He would either fuck them over immediately and they'd be dead by the end of the day, or he would come back, just as Lee had, and continue to make himself useful to them. The Joker was betting on option B, as he'd laid out to Harley, and she had nervously agreed.

She had a shower while Lee puttered around doing a deep clean, avoiding looking at the Joker, who watched her slyly. Harley reappeared sometime later, looking subdued, her hair wet. She was wearing a flimsy robe made of tangerine-colored silk, another item of Lee's from another time, he guessed. It wasn't quite see-through, but the silk clung to the soft curves of her small breasts, and it was _short_ , drawing his attention to her legs, and what he knew very intimately to be beneath the hem.

The Joker stared at her as she moved around the apartment helping Lee clean, her platinum hair drying slowly into soft waves. He guessed the chances she was wearing anything under that robe were slim to none, which meant there was only an inch or two of flimsy fabric hiding her perfect, peach-like pussy from him.

And this thought carried him through at least two full hours, if not longer, of watching Harley and Lee clean, all sorts of sordid fantasies rolling through his mind, most of them involving Harley bending over and showing him what was beneath the hem of her robe.

That whole stressed out energy was still at an all-time high when Lee went to the store that afternoon to stock up on more food. She left Harley in the kitchen alphabetizing her spice rack, which seemed painfully boring and cruel. Harley planted herself in front of the kitchen counter, dutifully arranging dried spices and herbs with her eyes narrowed, completely focused on the task at hand so she wouldn't let her mind drift to all the uncertainty.

The Joker was pretty sure he could distract her better than a spice rack.

He crushed the remaining half of his cigarette out in an ashtray and got to his feet, rubbing a hand over the bandage curling around his side. The stab wound wasn't healed, but that wasn't enough to get in the way of what he intended to do next.

Harley looked up as he strolled into the kitchen, her eyes dipping down to the bandage and then back up to his face as he circled the counter. She looked a little hesitant because she was letting all that uncertainty bleed into everything she was thinking and feeling, questioning herself when she didn't need to. All she needed to do was follow her instincts, do what felt right, what felt _good_ , and she would win. That was what he intended to remind her of now.

And maybe a few other lessons too.

She turned toward him as he drew closer, and she looked up at him with big, slightly wary blue eyes when he stopped beside her.

"Mm, that looks fun," he observed sarcastically, glancing at the spice rack before he placed a hand on her hip and rotated her back around, so she was facing the counter while he moved behind her.

Harley's eyes turned coy as she looked at him over her shoulder, and that was all the consent he needed to sneak a hand under her robe and grab her ass. He gave her a playful smack, which made her breath hitch in a very interesting way, making the Joker smirk as he pushed on her shoulder. She got the idea pretty quickly, bending forward so her elbows were braced on the kitchen counter, his hand on the middle of her back holding her there lightly. He squeezed her ass again, listening to her breathe shakily before he lowered himself to his knees behind her, a mildly uncomfortable task thanks to the stab wound, but worth it.

Harley was a symmetrical masterpiece from behind, her ass firm and lightly curved, her legs long and lean, and when she was bent over like this, the soft swell of her pussy was framed in the middle of her other assets like—he couldn't think of something creative, it was just perfect, and _begging_ him to touch her. But the Joker made himself wait, his hand ghosting over the backs of her legs as she tried not to squirm, which was both amusing and incredibly arousing—the best _possible_ combination, in his estimation.

He pitched forward when he felt he'd made her wait long enough, blowing on her pussy the way she liked before he traced the tip of his finger over her.

Harley sighed quietly, a little breathless already.

He smirked and did it again, slower this time, pressing against her slit teasingly before he dipped the tip of his finger inside her where - no surprise - she was already wet. He leaned forward to run his tongue over her, drawing a throaty, indulgent sound out of her, then went back to stroking her again, applying more pressure, and occasionally letting himself taste her until she was making this great _panting_ sound, her hips twitching. Then he went all in, enthusiastically using his mouth to get her all riled up, and when time seemed right, he slipped a finger inside her, right up to the knuckle, drawing a wonderful _cooing_ sound out of her.

 _"Oh_ , right there," she whined, bucking against his face when he found that _sweet_ little spot that always drove her half-insane, forcing him to grab her ass with one hand to hold her in place. " _Yes_ ," she panted, _right_ on the precipice, her body starting to flutter around his finger. " _Ugh,_ I'm going to— "

The Joker pulled away abruptly, rising back to his feet with none of the discomfort that had come with getting down there. She huffed a hilarious, disgruntled sound that made him smirk as he fumbled with the button and zip on the cop's too-big too-short trousers, yanking them down so his cock sprang free.

Harley was braced on her elbows, her back arched as she peered at him over her shoulder. He grabbed her hip to hold her in place, hearing her breath catch again as he rubbed his cockhead over her a few times, teasing her, making her whine and wiggle, desperate to have him inside her.

He laid his hand on the base of her spine as he pushed into her, the happy little sounds she was making too encouraging to go slow. A ragged breath left him once his hips were pressed flush against her ass, her pussy soft and wet and as close to _heaven_ as the Joker was ever liable to get.

Harley had never been shy about letting him know what she liked in bed. The first few times he fucked her were also the first times he saw her _really_ let go. Loud and happy and as completely absorbed in him as he was in her. It wasn't performative—it was just _real_. He remembered thinking, imagine if she was like this all the time—unrestrained, _limitless_. And eventually, that's exactly who she allowed herself to become.

He shoved her down on the counter again, pulling a breathless sound out of her as she rocked back against him. He kept his hand on the middle of her back, holding her down, sensing a little submission might be good for her considering the dire need to control everything currently ripping her apart.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she croaked when he pulled his hips back and drove into her hard.

She tried to push herself up but his hand on her back stopped her, and when she tried a second time, he shoved her down harder, and slapped her ass on an impulse. She made a loud, surprised, _swooning_ sound, her body spasming around him.

 _Huh_ , he thought, and spanked her again, harder this time in the same reddened place, fucking her roughly and holding her down. Her back arched and she rose up on her toes, crying out as she came, her body squeezing his cock relentlessly, making him exhale raggedly.

He slowed down while she gasped and trembled, waiting for her to finish before he released her back and turned her around. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright and sleepy, and the Joker quickly yanked the sash holding the robe closed so he could slip his hands beneath it, curling around her narrow waist and lifting her up on the kitchen counter.

Harley was breathing hard, her small breasts rising and falling as she searched his face, anticipation and lust making her eyes glow.

It seemed a little submission _was_ good for her.

They attacked each other at the same moment, pulling each other's hair as their mouths collided sloppily. She wrapped her legs around his waist and raked her nails down his back, her mouth leaving his to suck on his neck and lick one of his scars and bite his shoulder. He squeezed her ass and pulled her hair and rubbed his face against her neck, the kitchen melting away so there was only _Harley_. Then her mouth was on his again, and her hand was around his cock, guiding him inside her.

The Joker released a quiet growl once she was wrapped around him again, her hips bucking against his urgently. Her hands moved over him as she kissed him, over his back and his chest and his ribs, palming a stab wound that didn't seem to bother him in the slightest as she rubbed her tongue against his, breathing hard through her nose. Then she whined loudly, biting down on his bottom lip hard, only releasing him when she tasted blood.

She pulled away, licking her lips as she pitched back to brace her elbows against the kitchen counter. When he next thrust into her, her head fell back and she released a throaty moan, the new angle hitting that _sweet_ spot for her, making her forget everything but the feeling of him inside her.

"Harder," she demanded breathlessly, digging her heels into his lower back, and he happily obliged her, his hips snapping into hers more erratically.

And there was something about fucking her in the kitchen of this nice middle-class apartment while she had that woman-of-leisure silk thing on that was so at odds with who they were, the Joker nearly laughed.

She sat up and threw her arms around his neck, her lips on his again. Her legs uncurled from his waist, and her knees pinched around his hips so she could kick off the kitchen counter, sending the Joker staggering backward. He hit the fridge, which rattled loudly, shit inside of it falling over as he struggled to hold onto her while she kissed him furiously, clinging to him and refusing to let him go. He settled for sliding down the fridge to sit on the floor, and once he was there she started rolling her hips against his frantically, groaning into his mouth as he tried to keep up, thrusting up into her harder, their breathing loud and ragged.

He slipped sideways until he was on his back, letting her take what she wanted from him. Harley fucked him with reckless abandon, panting and tossing her hair when it got in her eyes, and the Joker could do little more than hold onto her and watch, absolutely fucking delighted by her.

Before too long, his breath was shallow and his heartbeat sharp and pounding in his throat, and he knew he was close. He slipped a hand between them to help her along, circling her clit with his thumb and pressing on her abdomen with the heel of his hand, his teeth grinding together as he held himself back.

"Shit," she moaned, pitching forward. Her hands landed on his chest and slid up to his neck, closing around his throat. Then in an unexpected twist, she squeezed, _hard_.

For a brief moment, it did occur to the Joker that in the same way she'd accidentally killed those kids in the park, she could accidentally strangle him to death while she fucked him.

But what was life without a little risk?

And _what_ a way to go out.

So, he gave in to it, growing light-headed as she started bucking against him wildly, her hands around his throat tightening while she made all kinds of wonderful sounds. He managed to hold his orgasm at bay until her body started to tremble and twitch, and she came again with a string of creative curses, her hands flexing rhythmically around his throat, her pussy throbbing around him.

That tension that came before relief was nearly suffocating, the dizziness that came with lack of oxygen intensifying _everything_ as he came hard inside her. The Joker's head rolled back against the wood floor, euphoria washing over him in a dense, lingering wave that didn't seem to stop. She released his neck, allowing him to suck in a lungful of oxygen that only made his orgasm last longer while he blinked up at the kitchen lights stupidly.

Then Harley was hovering over him, panting weakly, her silvery-blonde hair glowing as his vision wobbled around the edges. She touched the side of his face gently, coming into sharper focus.

"Oh shit," she laughed breathlessly. "Are you okay?"

"Mmmmmhmmmmm," he managed to convey with a lazy nod.

"Sorry," Harley winced and laughed again, not looking very apologetic at all.

" _Don't_ be," he smirked crookedly, sleepily, then rubbed his throat with one hand - it was fine - and slapped her ass with the other, making her suck in a startled breath.

"God," she bowed her head down, pressing her face against his neck. "I needed that," she mumbled into his skin.

"I _always_ need that," the Joker muttered, slipping a hand into her hair, pulling it tight as their hearts slowed down, their breathing returning to normal, annoying things like Ed and Roman and all their bullshit fading to background noise.

Then she lifted her head, her face so beautiful for someone so rotten, and she kissed him.

"Let's take a shower," she murmured, pulling on his bottom lip with her teeth, and the Joker realized she was touching herself.

"You greedy slut", he mumbled, smirking when she giggled over their stupid joke. He knocked her hand out of the way so he could take over for her, inadvertently smearing cum over her, making her hum happily as she rocked her hips against his hand.

"You want me to make you come again?" he taunted her, his voice low and gravelly.

"Yeah," she breathed lustily in his ear, making his dick harden again as she pulled back to look at him, her eyes heavy. "I'm going to suck your cock so slow you're going to _beg_ me to let you cum," she warned him with a sleepy smile.

"I _never_ beg," he pointed out, fighting back a smirk. "I'm _patient…_ unlike you."

"Oh, you're going to beg me today," Harley breathed, her voice low and silky as she ran her nails down his chest, nearly making him purr like a fucking kitten. She pulled back to look at him again, her platinum hair fluffy from having his fingers tangled in it, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes bright but sleepy, radiating the promise of sex and the threat of violence in equal measure.

"And I want you to — "

But before she could finish the thought, there was a key scratching in the lock as Lee returned from her grocery shopping.

Harley and the Joker looked at each other, their eyes widening comically. The Joker's pants were around his ankles, and Harley's tight little body was hardly covered by that scrap of fabric hanging off her elbows. She jumped to her feet, pulling him with her and they scampered back into the bedroom, snickering as they pulled the door shut behind them.

* * *

Ed may have been a teensy, weensy, _tiny_ , little, _baby_ bit naughty.

He walked to the metro and hopped on a train downtown, as promised, but instead of getting off at 14th street for the Gotham Globe's HQ, he got off early at 3rd Avenue, and he took himself to Saks. After four days in a bathtub, Ed _deserved_ something to make himself feel human, and he definitely didn't deserve to be wearing twenty-year-old Nordstrom Rack pants. _Blah_.

First, there was the matter of money. Ed nosed around the homeware section for a good thirty minutes before he saw the rich housewife he'd been waiting for. Ed picked her pocket easily —thank you, _Alison —_ and headed straight up to menswear, feeling giddy as he thumbed through Helmut Lang shirts and Armani ties and Gucci sunglasses.

Because he was on a tight schedule, Ed went with what he knew would look amazing —a Givenchy suit. Black because he was lying low and blending in, but with a pale green shirt and matching tie. Ed had been told many times that green brought out the color in his hazel eyes.

Then shoes: white Jimmy Choo loafers with the most _delicate_ gold chains. And socks: pink argyle from Dolce and Gabbana.

 _Ooh_ … D&G had purple too…

Ed checked the time on Lee's old phone - it was coming up to noon, and he was already running two hours behind schedule. He had five texts from Harley asking for an update, so he wrote back the truth: _So good!_ To which she replied: _?!_

Ed knew what would make her and J feel better.

He started with J. First, shoes: brown leather brogues - a little bit retro, very much a gentleman's shoe, and a _whole_ lot of attitude. Then socks: purple argyle, obviously. Shirt: hmmm, a very, _very_ pale lavender would be to _die_ _for_ beneath a navy suit with a _proper_ pinstripe. Tie? Oooh… _maroon_.

Next, it was mommy's turn, and Ed couldn't _believe_ he'd never come up with a reason to shop for womenswear before. It was glorious, and he spent a full hour agonizing over what to buy Harley. Chanel, Prada, Valentino, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci, Celine. They were all calling Harley's name, but he settled on a little bubble-gum-pink Dior number—tight on top to highlight that fantastic little waist of hers, with a short, balloon-like skirt to show off those _gorgeous_ legs.

He bought Harley some shoes too—slouchy half-calf boots in cream-colored leather. Practical, stylish, and _sassy_ as hell.

Finally, ten grand on Alison's AMEX and a whole lot of bags for his new family later, Ed was ready to meet Vicki Vale.

He grabbed a cab from out front of Saks, beaming out the window at the sheer luxury of taking a cab twelve blocks.

And then it was showtime.

"Hi, there," Ed grinned at the receptionist on the ground floor, bracing his elbow on her desk. "I'm here to see Vicki Vale."

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked, nice as anything.

 _"_ Actually, this is kind of a surprise!" Ed widened his eyes and pulled out Lee's old Blackberry. "She doesn't even know I'm in town! I'd text her but I've got this crappy phone and I just _can't_ get it to work." He sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders before smiling again. "Any who, do you think you could tell her Arthur Smiley is here? And let her know my cousin Ann is _dying_ to talk to her."

"Sure," the receptionist winked at Ed and dialed a few numbers. "Hey Betty, I've got a friend of Vicki's down here. Is she free? His name is Arthur Smiley."

Ed waited patiently, smiling and examining the Saks bags hanging from his arms, feeling so happy and satisfied with his new possessions, and wondering how Harley and J would react. He didn't expect them to be outwardly gracious, that just wasn't their style, but maybe he'd run into them sometime in the future, and she'd be wearing those boots or he'd be wearing that tie, and even though the truce would be over, they'd all remember what a great time they had taking down Black Mask together.

"Okay, Mr Smiley," the receptionist beamed, grabbing a visitor's pass and handing it to Ed. "Elevator to the tenth floor, Vicki'll be waiting for you there!"

" _Thank_ _you,_ sweetie," Ed cooed, giving her a sickly-sweet smile before he pranced over to the elevators, his shopping bags swinging cheerfully.

It was a short ride up to the tenth floor, and Ed was in such a fantastic mood he knew the old ADHD was about to start acting up. So, he took a moment to breathe deeply, concentrate on the job mommy had given him so he could prove to her that he was worth the trust she'd placed in him. There would be nothing — _nothing —_ more satisfying than having Harley admit she was proud of him.

More satisfying than even Givenchy or Dior.

The elevator doors opened, revealing Vicki Vale, her pale blonde hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail, her outfit cute as hell—basic white tee-shirt, black wide-leg trousers, white sneakers—like a modern-minimalist Annie Hall, or Vogue's street-style editor keeping it real at Paris fashion week.

Vicki's eyes widened incredulously when she saw Ed, and she froze up like she didn't know how to react. Ed's face split into a huge grin and he spread his arms wide, his shopping bags rustling.

"Vicki! _Darling!"_ He sang, pulling her in for a hug and lifting her off her feet while her assistant and some fat guy with a camera stared at them. _Okay. Dial it down,_ Ed decided, setting her back down.

"Hi, Arthur," Vicki said shakily, stepping away from him. "I didn't realize you were in town." She glanced at the Saks bags. "Looks like you got some shopping in."

"You know me, always shopping!" Ed grinned. "So, let me see this swanky new office of yours!"

Vicki plastered on something close to a smile, looking very strained as she gestured for Ed to follow her into her corner office. It was a very nice office with views of Midtown, and two comfy-looking white sofas, a wafer-thin MacBook sitting open in sleep mode like she hadn't _really_ been working before Ed arrived.

Ed flopped down on one of the couches, crossing his legs primly and smiling as Vicki pushed her office door shut. She paused for a moment before turning to face Ed, her expression stormy.

"Alright who the hell are you?" she demanded, lingering near the door like she thought she might need to make a quick escape.

"I'm Ed," he explained, laying a hand over his heart. "Harley sent me to talk to you."

 _"Harley_ sent you to talk to me?" she huffed, her eyes narrowing. "Did she send Frost too?"

Ed refrained from reacting, remembering the bleach blonde bodybuilder type who'd been with Harley and the Joker the day of the fundraiser. For the briefest of moments, Ed felt _betrayed_ that Harley would send Frost to Vicki first, a very _hurtful_ idea. Then Ed reminded himself that Harley hadn't left the apartment or spoken to anyone in four days. That meant Frost had gone to Vicki on his own. _Maybe_ even trying to trick her for Black Mask.

"And what did Frost have to say?" Ed asked, smiling.

"Oh, no. No _way_ ," Vicki shook her head furtively. "How do I know if Harley really sent you? I have no idea who you are."

Ed smothered a grin. God, what an _opening._

"I tease your mind and taunt your tongue," he smirked at her, leaning forward. "To only the sharpest minds will the right answer come." He watched her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. "Who am I?"

As Vicki continued to stare at him, Ed cupped his hands around his mouth.

 _"I'm the Riddler,"_ he whispered loudly, then pressed a finger against his lips like it was a secret.

Which it _definitely_ was. Ed's Grannie had a bad heart and would not react well to the news that he was the Riddler.

"You're… the _Riddler_?" Vicki half-collapsed onto the sofa across from him, stunned. "Harley sent the _Riddler_ to talk to me?"

"She's my friend too," Ed shrugged, remembering Harley's advice about hooking Vicki with a good story. "Or at least we are for now. We're teaming up to take down Black Mask."

"Well…" Vicki sputtered. "Well, where is she?"

"Laying low," Ed sighed. "Black Mask almost killed her boyfriend so she's looking after him."

"Right," Vicki nodded, struggling to accept what she was hearing. "So that's what happened after the fundraiser."

"Vicki," Ed said kindly, leaning forward and forcing her to meet his eye. There were some things they needed to clear up. "When did Frost come talk to you?"

"Yesterday," she admitted reluctantly.

"And what did he have to say?" Ed continued, as sweet as anything.

"He was looking for Harley and the Joker," Vicki said slowly. "I told him everything I know…"

"Oh, you did, huh?" Ed cringed. Yeesh, _civilians._

"He was worried about them," Vicki insisted, understanding what Ed was thinking. "He wasn't working for Black Mask."

"Okay," Ed agreed breezily, moving on. "So, anyway, Harley—"

"No," Vicki shook her head again. "No, I want to speak to her."

"She's not available at the moment," Ed offered her a pinched smile. "But I am. And I was hoping to talk to you about your boyfriend's company."

Vicki paled at that.

"Does Harley know something?" she asked.

"Well, we _all_ know Black Mask wants to destroy Wayne Enterprises and _maybe_ even hurt your tasty boy-toy too," Ed feigned a sympathetic wince, playing up the Bruce Card as Harley had instructed. "And a very good friend—a very _valuable_ friend—of the Joker's has disappeared. We're wondering if they might be connected."

"A valuable _friend_?" Vicki narrowed her eyes, her interest in the story overtaking her concern for her boyfriend.

Ooh, no _wonder_ Harley liked her.

"His name is Anarky," Ed explained. "He's a hacker. A good one. And Roman has him."

"And what does Harley expect me to do about that?" Vicki demanded, looking a little bit angry now.

"We think Roman's gonna use Anarky to um…" Ed rolled his eyes up thoughtfully. " _Harm_ Wayne Enterprises. Ya know, _cyber-attack_ style."

Vicki seemed to deflate into the couch cushions, running a hand over her face as she stared at Ed's fabulous new loafers.

"Do you think you could, ya know, _ask_ Bruce who might know what kinda damage Anarky can do?" Ed ducked down, catching her eye again. "So we can try to get ahead of them? Make sure nothing _bad_ happens to Bruce or his family's company?"

"Maybe," Vicki murmured, her face darkening as she looked Ed square in the eye. "I want to talk to Harley first," she insisted. "In person."

"Yeah," Ed winced. "I don't think…"

"Those are my conditions," Vicki raised her chin. "She wants me to look into her missing hacker? I want to talk to her about it in person."

Ed sucked on his teeth, sighing fitfully before he nodded.

Maybe a little pink Dior would get Harley out of the house…

"I'll see what I can do," he agreed, and pulled out Lee's phone, waving it at her with a cheeky smile. "Wanna give me your number?"

Vicki hesitated a moment, then stood up and walked over to her desk, picking up a burner. She thumbed around on it for a moment, then handed it to Ed, who shot her a wink before typing her number into Lee's Blackberry.

"Just one more thing," Ed added, drawing her phone out of her reach when she went to take it back. "You wouldn't happen to have Frost's number, would you? If he's looking for Harley and J, maybe I should, ya know, link them up."

Just _think_ how much it would impress Harley if Ed tracked down one of their favorite henchmen for them. At least he _assumed_ Frost was a favorite. It felt like he was the last man standing that day of the fundraiser, and if he was coming looking for them like he cared…

Or, he could have been flipped by Black Mask.

Tricky. Very tricky.

"Okay," Vicki agreed numbly, gesturing to the phone. "He's in there as Jonny."

 _"Jonny_ Frost," Ed sang with a little chuckle as he typed Frost's number into Lee's phone and saved it. "What a name, amiright?"

There was a knock on the door but before Vicki could say anything the fat guy with the camera poked his head in, looking around suspiciously.

"Alex," Vicki snapped, irritated. "Do you remember our conversation about _knocking_?"

"Jeez, Vale, I'm just makin' sure everything's okay," _Alex_ drawled, eyeing Ed warily, doing a bad job of playing it cool.

"This is my friend Arthur," Vicki explained, gesturing to Ed, who was rising to his feet and collecting all his lovely bags.

 _"Pleasure_ ," Ed purred, his eyes rolling over _Alex's_ awful polyester-blend shirt before he turned back to Vicki. "This has been _delightful_ ," he cooed, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Her face still looked strained but determined now.

She was officially on the team, Ed thought, his smile growing.

"I'll let Ann know about tonight!" he added as he breezed out of the office, shooting Vicki a wink over his shoulder.

* * *

Lee was not surprised to return home to find the bedroom door closed and the television on loud. Since Ed departed, the apartment had been tense, a different brand from Harley's high octane anxiety, and it mostly came down to the Joker staring at Harley, very obviously in lust. Lee remembered what it was like to have someone look at you that way, but there was something _violent_ about the intensity with which the Joker ogled Harley.

Lee Thompkins was not a stupid woman, and regardless of what the colorful occupants of her apartment believed, she wasn't easily manipulated either.

No, Lee was pragmatic, and she didn't want to _die_.

Instead of going to the police when she had the chance, Lee made the choice to continue helping three wanted terrorists. They wouldn't need her help forever, but she already knew she wouldn't go to the cops when they left. In part because the longer she held off, the more guilty she looked, but she also had no doubt the police wouldn't be able to protect her if she gave evidence against the Joker, Harley Quinn or the _Riddler_. She would just have to protect herself.

But Lee had _also_ become fond of these deeply flawed but strangely beautiful human beings, each of whom terrified her and surprised her in their own unique ways

The Joker was thoroughly impenetrable, but Lee believed she'd seen a glimpse of who Harley Quinn was beneath her malice and charm. A fellow pragmatist who took too much on her own shoulders. Someone who needed a friend. And even though Lee knew Harley was capable of _horrible_ things, she couldn't help but _like_ her.

So-called 'good' people did horrible things all the time. The difference was Harley didn't lie about who she was.

Then there was Ed. Ed didn't have a partner like the Joker and Harley had each other, and it was obvious he was a novice at this particular… _lifestyle_. Ed was as dangerous as he was sweet, and he needed support that Lee felt compelled to give.

Maybe they were manipulating her, but frankly, Lee was too damn old to care.

Besides, who didn't want to have the Riddler and Harley Quinn as secret friends?

It sure wasn't _boring_.

Lee sighed as she put away the groceries and pulled a cookbook off the shelf, trying to decide what she would make for dinner, when there was a sudden crash in the bedroom, making her head snap up. She set the cookbook aside and eyed the closed door warily when it happened again, the dull thud of the dresser hitting the wall fighting to be heard over the TV.

And then again, a few seconds later, and again, and again in rapid succession after that.

 _Thud-thud-thud-thud_.

Lee licked her lips, realizing what she was hearing, and without really meaning to, she drifted out of the kitchen and into the living room, stopping in front of the bedroom door.

The _thud-thud-thud_ of the dresser hitting the wall was getting louder, and now Lee was close enough she could hear soft, breathless sounds despite the noise of the television. She laid her hand on the door, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat, and without bothering to question what she was doing, she leaned forward to press her ear against the wood. She could hear Harley gasping weakly, and she could hear the Joker's voice, low and raspy as the dresser continued banging into the wall.

Lee closed her eyes and let her imagination pick up the slack.

* * *

Ed and Frost agreed to meet at Ed's diner downtown, where Ed stuck out like a sore thumb among the working-class types who frequented it for lunch.

Frost was late, which gave Ed time to slurp down a couple of milkshakes and flirt with the redheaded waitress in her cute teal uniform. Harley hadn't texted him in hours, making Ed wonder what she'd been getting up to back at Lee's apartment if she wasn't sitting around fretting over him, which she'd obviously been doing that morning.

Finally, Frost appeared, built like a brick shithouse and dressed like your average Gotham thug. Straight leg jeans (oh the humanity!) a members-only jacket (why would you do that to yourself?) and scuffed work boots that would never have been very nice anyway (tragic). He was fantastically tanned though, and his bleach blonde ponytail told Ed that beneath that muscled manly-man exterior lurked someone with a sense for aesthetics who would enjoy a nice suit. Or maybe a Hawaiian-print shirt.

The last time Ed met Frost, he hadn't been introduced, he'd just heard Harley and J say his name in passing when they gave him orders or wanted his attention. But mostly they treated him like he was invisible unless they needed him at any given moment. It made Ed wonder what _his_ henchmen—or henchwomen, _there_ was an idea— would be like when he inevitably got them. That was something to get excited about. They could have uniforms. _Ooh._

"Hello again, _Jonny,_ " Ed beamed as Frost slid into the booth across from him.

"Hiya, Ed," Frost rumbled in his soft baritone. He folded his hands on top of the chrome table and looked at Ed expectantly.

"So, you went to see Vicki, huh," Ed smirked, planting his chin on his knuckles. "And you got her to tell you everything about Black Mask?"

Frost didn't say anything, he just continued to look at Ed expectantly like he was waiting for him to come to a point.

"I'm just saying," Ed rolled his eyes. "It's kinda dangerous for her to be going around telling everyone all our secrets. I mean you could have been _anyone._ "

"Harley trusts her," Frost countered simply. "I do too."

"Right," Ed narrowed his eyes.

"Vicki called me after she saw you today," Frost continued, cocking his head to the side. "She says you told her Roman almost killed the Joker, and he and Harley have been hiding out the last few days."

There was something a little bit _judgy_ in Frost's voice that Ed didn't like.

Also, what the hell was with Vicki being willing to speak to _Frost,_ a random henchman, but not _Ed,_ who was officially part of the team?

"How nice that you two are best friends," Ed simpered.

"The thing is, Ed, the only way Roman woulda been able to get to Harley and the boss in the first place is through you," Frost said, his expression hard to read. "But I figure the only way you woulda known Harley and Vicki are friends is if Harley told you herself. And that makes me figure you know where they are, and you three have come to some kinda… arrangement."

He lifted his eyebrows expectantly, and Ed felt judged again, making him huff indignantly. He _wanted_ to counter with something sassy, but he reminded himself that this was about impressing Harley. He could always kill Frost later.

"Yes, that's the long and short of it," Ed agreed, forcing a smile that made his nose wrinkle.

"Well, that's good news to me, Ed," Frost nodded amicably. "Now tell me this, how's the boss doing?"

"He's fine," Ed shrugged carelessly.

"Fine as is in he ain't gonna die, or fine as in he's up and walkin' around?"

"Fine as in he and Harley are already um…" Ed giggled and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I got it," Frost held up a hand, stopping him. "Well, that's good to hear too, Ed."

Ed made a face. This guy was so _boring_. "So, what happens now?" he demanded, getting annoyed.

"If you don't mind, Ed, I'd like ya to tell the boss I haven't flipped, in case he's worried about it," Frost said with a shrug. "In fact, I've got someone for him and Harley to meet tonight if they're up for it."

"Who?" Ed's eyes widened.

Frost met Ed's gaze and held it, considering his next words carefully.

"You like surprises, Ed?" he asked at length.

"Um… _no_?" Ed squinted at Frost.

"Well, here's the thing. We're all playin' by Moscow Rules right now," Frost hunched forward, spreading his hands. "So, I'm reckoning it'd be better if you three come back here tonight, about eleven o'clock. And we'll have a little powwow. How's that sound to you?"

"Moscow rules?" Ed frowned, hunching forward too. "Hang on, how do we know you're not just setting up a trap, huh? Like we show up here tonight and Black Mask and all his thugs are here waiting to kill us?"

"I'll tell you what, Ed," Frost nodded. "You tell the boss what I told ya, and you see what he says. He's got good instincts about these things."

"Hmm," Ed narrowed his eyes. Frost was looking at him expectantly again, not impatiently, but like he had all the time in the world. It was risky, but something told Ed that Harley would appreciate risky. "Okay," Ed conceded. "I'll talk to J, and we'll text you if we're free."

"That sounds good to me, Ed," Frost said, standing up quickly, and fixing Ed with a pointed look. "Now you be careful not to be followed on your way back to the boss and Harley, alright?" He wagged a finger at Ed, making Ed's eyes widen. "I'd be real unhappy if something bad happened to them."

Ed's scoffed indignantly as Frost left.

* * *

Harley's head rolled back against the tangled sheets, her skin hot against the cool bedding, her body electrified and hyper-sensitive, though her brain felt like she was falling through a sinkhole she would never climb out of.

The Joker cleared his throat meaningfully, prompting Harley to look down at him where he was perched between her legs off the side of the bed, his elbow braced beside her hip. He lifted an amused eyebrow at her.

"Come on," Harley whined impatiently, making a smirk spread across his lips.

After exhausting each other over the course of the afternoon, they'd taken a nap, followed by a game they'd been playing for the better part of an hour. There weren't any hard and fast rules, but the idea was essentially orgasm denial until one of them caved. However, caving didn't really count as losing, which made quantifying what counted as winning even less easy to define.

Harley caved first some twenty minutes earlier. She'd felt the Joker's hand tighten in her hair as he released a rough breath, letting her know he was close, but instead of pulling away again, she kept going, forgoing her desire to make him beg for the almost-equally strong desire to make him cum for her. And now _she_ was ready, after an hour of being brought to the precipice but not allowed to fall over the edge, she was lazy and tingling and a little _annoyed_ that he wasn't letting her, making her desperate to find relief.

Which was kind of the brilliant point of the game anyway.

The Joker brushed his finger down the hollow where her thigh met her body, rolling his eyes out to the side, feigning thoughtfulness and making Harley smile. Then he climbed back on the bed, his cock hard and bobbing against his stomach as his eyes drifted over her. The tangerine-silk robe she'd yet to take off was open and fanned out around, her hair messy after alternating between writhing on the bed and sucking his dick for the better part of an hour. She braced herself on her elbows, the silk slipping down her shoulder as she looked up at the Joker, feeling a needy throb between her legs.

He grabbed her, making her shriek when he flipped her over like a rag doll. Harley laughed breathlessly as she landed on her elbows and knees, the bed squeaking around her. But before she had a chance to recalibrate, he was kneeling behind her, sinking into her, and making her groan as she rocked back against him, trying to take him deeper. His hand landed on her lower back, the pressure of his palm holding her in place as his hips snapped forward, and she moaned into the bedding as a more head-spinning brand of arousal spread through her entire body, the kind only his cock could give her.

Harley's pulse started leaping in her throat and her wrists as she closed her eyes and indulged in the deep, lazy sex. She hummed weakly, rocking her hips back to meet his languid thrusts, the slow build of pleasure making her lips part in a quiet sigh.

Then, quite unexpectedly, J slapped her ass, _hard_. Harley's eyes flew open, the sharp, stinging, _lingering_ pain like having a bucket of cold water poured over her head. She tried twisting around to glare at him, but he grabbed her hair, pulling it so hard she gasped and was forced up onto her hands as he started to fuck her harder.

Harley swore breathlessly when he used his grip on her hair to force her head all the way back, making her spine arch, her eyes rolling because it felt so... _Good._ He spanked her again, hitting the same tender area, the excess of sensation sending a spasm of pleasure straight to her core.

Harley gasped weakly, prompting him to spank her again, harder this time, pulling another weak, breathless whine out of her, a confusing blend of pleasure, surprise, and just a little bit of pain making her body squeeze his cock tighter as she cried out, feeling dizzy with desire.

He pulled her hair harder until her scalp started to sting. Realizing what he wanted, Harley pushed herself up so she was upright on her knees, and one of his arms looped around her waist to hold her against him. Harley's eyelids fluttered as the Joker sat back on his heels behind her, pulling her down on him firmly, the new angle even more intense.

She groaned throatily, her head falling back against his shoulder. One of her arms swung up to curl around his neck behind her, her fingers winding into his hair to hold him in place as he pressed his nose against the side of her neck, his breath hot and heavy on her jugular.

"Touch me," she begged, resisting the urge to touch herself, her swollen clit begging for the attention she needed to come apart. He seemed to sense what she was thinking and grabbed her wrist, wrenching her arm behind them, his grip almost crushing as he pressed his cheek against hers, his heart pounding against her back.

"Oh, no, no, _no_ ," he growled in her ear. "Not yet."

"Please," Harley gasped, feeling like she was hanging off a cliff's edge, her entire body poised to explode. "Jack, _please_ ," she breathed, sounding half insane.

He muttered something she couldn't make out in her hair, his thrusts becoming more erratic as Harley spiraled into a frenzy of pleading absolute nonsense. Then he caved, his hand sneaking between her legs, his fingers circling her clit as he squeezed her close.

Harley came with a string of high-pitched cries, the orgasm that had been building for almost an hour nearly splitting her in two as she struggled fitfully against him.

He was breathing hard against her cheek as she started to come down from the high of pleasure, her arms falling limp by her side, her body still spasming around his cock, which was still hard and buried inside her. If he hadn't been holding her up, she would have fallen face-first onto the bed, but instead, her head lolled back against his shoulder, and she gazed up at him blearily, realizing he hadn't finished.

"I win," she said sleepily, her hand covering the back of his on her thigh.

"Debatable," he muttered, shooting her a faint smirk before he pressed her down onto him, making her eyes close as she sighed indulgently.

She rolled her head in a lazy circle before twisting around to look up at him again, her lips curving into an amused smirk.

"C'mere," she demanded, her head tipping back, and he chuckled throatily before kissing her. His tongue swept into her mouth as Harley started to roll her hips against him, drawing him in and out of her body languidly. One of his hands smoothed down her ribs and her stomach, over her hip to the inside of her thigh, his thumb brushing her clit briefly as he growled into her mouth, his chest vibrating against her back.

Then he pulled away from her abruptly, manhandling her off him and flipping her onto her back. He pitched forward over her, and Harley's knees butterflied open for him as he slid into her again, her head falling back until he grabbed her hair and forced her to face him.

He wanted to see her face, Harley realized as he started to fuck her slowly, steadily, his mouth occasionally dipping down to her breasts to pull on her nipples with his teeth, making them oversensitive so each brush of his tongue sent a fresh rush of pleasure shooting through her. Her legs curled around his waist as she pressed her nose against his wrist where his hand was braced beside her head, feeling the thread that would create new scars there, and his pulse throbbing beneath the surface.

"Faster," she murmured, digging her nails into his back as he sucked on her shoulder, probably leaving a bruise there, but she didn't care. He released her skin to look at her again, his hips snapping faster against hers before he grabbed her waist and rolled them over so she was on top, letting her take what she wanted from him as he was so fond of watching her do.

Harley started to bounce up and down more forcefully, the bed squeaking loudly, his hands on her hips guiding her as she found a faster rhythm that would satisfy both of them. He slipped a hand between them to rub her clit, making Harley's back arch and her hips swing against his hard. She panted weakly as she looked down at him, his dark eyes glowing up at her, watching her fuck him like he was watching something _fascinating_.

Then he sat up, his hands on her hips wrenching her body back and forth, making Harley whine. She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as he ducked his head down to pull one of her breasts into his mouth, tugging on her sore nipples with his teeth, pulling a high, breathless sound out of Harley as her pussy clenched around him.

"Oh _, fuck_ ," Harley groaned, her head falling back as another orgasm spiraled through her, weaker but still intense, sending waves of pleasure spreading from her core throughout her entire body. She felt him finish inside her, his scarred mouth against her ear, mumbling something Harley couldn't make out, but was pretty sure consisted of praise for her anatomy.

She slumped against him, breathing hard, feeling his pulse pounding against her cheek as he panted into her hair, and after a solid thirty seconds of feeling too lazy to move, he lifted his head to smirk at her.

" _I_ win," he purred smugly.

Harley laughed and punched his shoulder weakly, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell back on the bed, pulling her with him.

For the first time in almost a week, Harley was glad she was trapped in Lee's apartment, and now she found herself wishing they never had to leave. Sure, she would go stir crazy eventually, but for now, she never wanted to move again, not while she was sweaty and relaxed and tangled up with the Joker on a soft bed with clean sheets where she could fuck him whenever she felt like it.

After a while he rolled his head towards her, his eyes narrowing curiously.

"Why are you callin' me _Jack_ , huh?" he asked.

Harley's eyes widened, remembering that 'Jack' had slipped out in the heat of the moment when she hadn't been thinking clearly.

"It just slipped out," she shrugged. He was the Joker to her as far as she was concerned. J if she was speaking directly to him and sometimes about him. Jack was foreign, and it felt weird to think of him that way. Like meeting his parents, when neither of them even _had_ parents. "Do you hate it?" she asked carefully.

He shrugged carelessly. "I don't care what you call me... _Puddin'._ "

Harley shot him a dubious look. "See, I really do hate that."

" _So_ high maintenance," he rolled his eyes, then shot her a wicked look, making Harley chuckle until she remembered something, and groaned.

"I called you Jack in front of Ed," she admitted, unsure how he'd feel about it. "When you were… you know, _dying_."

 _"Yeah_ , I remember," he sighed like it had all been a terrible inconvenience, then he glanced at her sideways. "It sounds _way_ better when you're beggin' me to let you come."

Harley snorted, pleased that he didn't, in his usual fashion, give a shit, even if it was a shame that Ed knew, and who the hell knew what Ed would do with that information.

"Since when do you want to spank me, huh?" she asked, changing the subject, and the Joker shot her a bizarre look like he thought she was crazy.

" _Uh_ , since I realized how much you _love_ it," he countered, his mouth twitching up on one side.

"I do not," Harley narrowed her eyes.

He scoffed incredulously and hauled himself up on his elbow so he could look down at her, his eyebrows raised.

" _Sure,_ you do, you just don't want to admit it cause you think it's a uh," he rotated his hand in a circle, searching for the word. "Mm, a… _cliché_ ," he settled on, squinting at her owlishly.

"I don't like being infantilized," Harley protested, making him roll his eyes.

"It's not like you're callin' me _daddy_ , Harl," he shot her a smug, knowing look. "You don't think I can tell when you like something?"

Harley fought back a smile, knowing it was futile arguing with him, and that she should expect to be spanked with some frequency for the foreseeable future so he could prove his point. He wasn't wrong either, her body seemed to be a fan of the sharp, surprising sting so close to where she was most sensitive, kicking everything up a notch, making it more intense. And discussing it with him like this just made her feel so… warm and _fuzzy_ that they were so… _together_.

"And how do you know what I like?" she asked coyly, wanting to make the most of the time they had left.

"Mm," he growled as his eyes swept over her body. "Usually when you're all… wet and _squirmy_ I know I'm on the right track," he shifted forward so he was hovering over her, toying with a lock of her hair as his eyes dipped down to her lips. "And you fuckin' _love_ it when I talk dirty to you."

Harley's thighs squeezed together as she felt a sudden flash of blatant lust roll through her, followed swiftly by stubbornness over not wanting him to know he was right.

"And I know you _really_ like it when I make you _beg_ ," he continued, his voice low, his eyes hooded as his fingers trailed down her arm, pushing the tangerine silk aside so he could trace the scar where she got shot by a good samaritan. "Cause _you_ know the longer I make you wait... the harder _you're_ gonna come," he looked up at her slyly, and Harley felt her pulse leap as his fingers drifted over her ribs, tracing one lightly. "And we _both_ know how much you like sucking my cock," His fingers drifted down her side, following the curve of her waist to her hip. " _Almost_ as much as you love it when I lick your pussy, nice and _slow_ and slippery, _just_ the way you like it."

Harley's stomach tensed as his fingers trailed along the curve of her hip bone and across her abdomen, her toes curling.

"And what else do you think I like," she asked softly, making his lips twitch in a smile.

"I'm thinking... considering all those nice _sounds_ you were making earlier, _you_ like it when I hold you down and fuck you from behind." He growled, squeezing her as he drew closer, his eyes heavy lidded, his nose touching hers. "And you got very… _frisky_ when I _let_ you get a little bit ah… _rough_ with me on the kitchen floor."

"Let me," she scoffed, making him chuckle. "As if you don't love all of that too," she added, looking down at his cock, which was hard again, and pressed against her thigh.

He shrugged helplessly. "What can I say," he drawled. "I'm just a _generous_ guy."

Harley laughed and shifted up onto her elbow, shoving his shoulder. He fell back against the bed, letting her plant her hand on the other side of his head so she was hovering over him, just a few inches from his face. He was smiling at her a little sleepy, and something about that look, which was reserved exclusively for her, along with all his other secrets, made her heart leap as she searched his face.

"You're _mine_ ," Harley said slyly, pushing a lank flop of hair off his face and tucking it behind his ear. She raised an eyebrow at him, challenging him to challenge her.

"Mm, how _terrible_ for me," the Joker smirked, sliding his hand into her hair. "I'll tell ya what, if we survive this shit, I'll let ya put a collar on me and you can walk me around on a leash."

Harley threw back her head and laughed then beamed down at him.

"Now that's a pretty good reason to stay alive," she agreed, leaning down to kiss him as she shifted on top of him, his hands sliding up her legs to grab her ass as her tongue swept into his mouth.

But then, because the universe is an unusually cruel place, the front door banged open.

 _"Honeys! I'm home!"_ Ed sang loudly, slamming the front door shut.

" _No_ ," Harley whined, the Joker's fingers digging into her sharply as he growled, _very_ unhappily.

Theoretically, Ed returning was a win. But it didn't feel that way right now.

Ed pounded on the bedroom door, making it rattle in its frame.

"Great news, you two babes!" he shouted through the door. "Come on out when you're finished fucking!"

The Joker lurched up, knocking Harley off him as he made to stand, probably to kill Ed. But Harley grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

"Later, when this is all over," she reassured him, her eyes narrowing at the door. "I want it to be slow and painful."

"Mmm," the Joker growled, agreeing.

* * *

**A/N: Soooooo much smut!  
**

**I love this chapter. I feel like everyone is shining and in character and growing and being their best, most-complex selves. It's the best, most fun smut I've ever written I think. I love writing Harley & the Joker figuring out what they like in bed together. **

**And LEE! Lee you naughty thing! Giving into a little voyeurism. Oh, the corrupting influence of _curiosity._**

**On a real life note – it's 1 November today. If you are American and you haven't already, PLEASE VOTE. I am begging you.**

**I'm also begging you to review because I'm needy as hell. The funny thing about smutty chapters is y'all just kind of disappear. Which is both disappointing for me because I LIVE for your comments, and hilarious because I know you're just blushing like wild and dealing with your feelings.  
**

**So, to be concise. Please review or comment! Kudos or bookmark if ya can.  
**

**xo**


	18. Chapter 18

_Theme: Marie Davidson - 'Renegade Breakdown' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/P-U-J5QVI3s)) ([Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/4u7nqGA1U5h5Eh0kIN3utu?si=oFiW4RiuQ-qeshda8xJGAw%20)  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

18.

* * *

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Harley sighed when she saw that Ed had returned with a garment bag, shoe boxes, and multiple shopping bags in different shapes and sizes from Saks, the most high-end department store in the city.

"You didn't really expect me to walk around in twenty-year-old _Kirkland Brand,_ did you?" Ed demanded, looking scandalized.

"No, I expected you to blend in and lay low instead of being a slave to your own vanity," Harley snapped back, which got an offended little gasp out of Ed.

"Oh, _sure,_ because wearing ridiculous clothes that don't fit makes it so easy to blend in," Ed huffed imperiously, plucking up a small bag and waving it at the Joker, who was hanging back in the doorway to the bedroom, his face completely blank, his jaw twitching. "I got you something, J," Ed sang, shimmying closer. "They're _purple_."

Harley watched the Joker light a cigarette, glowering at Ed over the flame like he was trying to set him on fire with his thoughts alone. She shared the sentiment, though inwardly she conceded that Ed made a good point about their clothes, and he _had_ managed to choose something relatively tame for himself despite his preference for white suiting with shoulder pads.

"Ed," Harley warned him. "J is going to rip your head off, and I'm not going to try to stop him."

"Alright, _alright_ , jeez," Ed tisked, rolling his eyes as he dropped the small bag in favor of a big one and collapsed on the couch.

"You were gone for eight hours," Harley pointed out, watching the Joker out of the corner of her eye as he started going through the bags, his hair flopping over his face, a cigarette pinched between his lips and smoke billowing out of his nose. "What happened to all that good news, huh?"

 _"Well,_ I met Vicki," Ed sighed, pulling a large white box out of a Saks bag and holding it close to his chest. "She's cute. I get why you like her."

"And?" Harley pressed, frowning when the Joker staggered into the bedroom with some of the bags, slamming the door behind him.

 _"And_ she said she'll ask her boy-toy who to talk to about what kinda damage Anarky can do but…" Ed feigned a wince. "She wants to see you in person."

"Really?" Harley raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You were supposed to convince her without me."

"Oh, come _on_ , as if you only sent me because you couldn't go yourself," Ed shot back smugly, crossing his ankle over his knee, exposing a pair of blindingly pink argyle socks. "You two are hiding out here with no backup and no friends, so you sent me on this little mission to get the lay of the land and see if you could get me to work for you. It's right out of Black Mask's playbook."

Harley sighed and glanced at the closed bedroom door where she could hear the Joker puttering around.

Maybe Ed wasn't such a moron, after all.

"But Roman would _never_ take a risk like that," Ed continued, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he patted the Saks box. "That just _screams_ sexy-chaotic terrorist to me."

"Uh huh," Harley said drily. He wasn't wrong, and she didn't feel compelled to lie to him. "How was Vicki?"

" _Very_ stressed out," Ed grimaced, his white teeth snapping together. "I'm not sure Brucey's as good at helping her _relax_ as your eye-candy is."

Harley rolled her eyes, bottling the urge to smack Ed. She sensed that, like the Joker, he would only be encouraged by negative attention.

"When does Vicki want to meet?" she asked, looking at the Saks box, which Ed was now stroking like a Bond villain. Harley knew instinctively that he'd bought her something ludicrous and _fashiony_ to wear.

In his own twisted way, Ed respected her. She just needed to play that to her advantage, even if it also meant he wanted to _collect_ her like his suits and artwork…

And dress her up as his own personal Barbie, apparently…

"Tonight," Ed said, looking pleased with himself. "Guess who else got in touch with dear Vicki since you disappeared?"

"I don't like to guess," Harley scowled.

"Jonny Frost," Ed waggled his eyebrows. "Oh my God, he _loves_ you guys."

"Frost got in touch with Vicki?" Harley's eyes widened.

"Yep," Ed nodded smugly, obviously thinking he'd brought them something valuable. Which… he may have done. "He wants to meet you tonight. He says he's got a friend to introduce you to."

Harley ground her teeth, thinking fast. It could be a trick. It could be Roman getting the upper hand on them again. She had more questions, but before she could get them out, the Joker banged out of the bedroom, wearing a new suit that almost fit as well as his usual custom-made ones. It was navy blue with a pinstripe, paired with a pale lavender shirt and a maroon tie he was currently fiddling with. It was a more subtle color palette but something about it still _felt_ like the Joker.

He raked a hand through his hair and ran his tongue over his teeth, his expression still decidedly sour. But still, he looked more alive and like himself than he had in days, maybe _weeks,_ and Harley had to fight back a pleased smile so Ed wouldn't see.

She knew how much the Joker loved a good suit.

* * *

The sun had only just set when Dinah slipped onto the roof of the MCU. She'd received a text from Essen that afternoon requesting a meetup, and with zero leads on the Joker and Harley, Dinah was eager to find out if the police had turned up something she and Bruce hadn't.

It had been a week since Harley's attack on City Hall, and Gotham felt eerily quiet. Aside from the night of the Wayne Foundation Fundraiser, Dinah and Bruce had been out every night hunting down leads, and it had been a dead-end at every turn.

On the bright side, Bruce finally had his head in the game. Dinah got the distinct impression Vicki was avoiding him, and she couldn't help being pleased about that development. There was way too much on the line for distractions. Personal lives had to take a backseat.

The door to the roof banged open, and Detective Montoya appeared, sucking on an e-cigarette as she looked around the rooftop, squinting into the darkness.

Dinah stepped out of the shadows when her back was turned.

"Where's Essen?" she hissed, prompting Montoya to swing around.

"You really sneak up like that every time, huh?" she drawled, tucking her cigarette away. She pulled Essen's burner phone out of her blazer and waved it at Dinah. "Essen's got some politics she's gotta deal with. She passed this on to me."

"Politics?" Dinah asked.

"The Mayor's gonna make her Commissioner if he wins re-election," Montoya explained drily, looking amused. "But he didn't realize she's dating our disgraced _former_ Commissioner."

"City Hall doesn't want to be connected to Gordon after Dent," Dinah inferred.

"You got it," Montoya sighed. "Essen's trying to clean it up, so for now," she waved the phone again. "This is on me, and I really hope you got some news on the clowns."

"No," Dinah felt herself deflate. "It's unusually quiet out there right now."

"Same on our side," Montoya ran her tongue over her teeth, looking thoughtful. "I did get one lead, but… it's not going anywhere so far."

Dinah looked up hopefully. "Maybe I can help."

"Maybe you can," Montoya agreed, raising her eyebrows. "A source of mine says Porter and Akins were both investigating Daggett Shipping. Judge Chiecco was planning on issuing warrants to get a closer look at Daggett's books." She shrugged mildly. "Could be a coincidence, or it could be the clowns were covering for Daggett."

"No," Dinah shook her head. "If anything, they would expose Daggett. They wouldn't work for him."

"That's what I said," Montoya sighed. "But what are the chances it's a real coincidence? Maybe the angle isn't that they're covering it up—maybe there's something more at play."

"Part of a bigger picture," Dinah agreed quietly.

"Exactly," Montoya pulled her e-cigarette from her suit jacket and took a drag, its orange LED end glowing in the darkness. "Even if I could get a warrant to look at Daggett's books, I wouldn't know what the fuck to look for." She sighed out a cloud of water vapor. "City Hall aren't interested, not with the election coming up in a couple of days, I'll tell you that."

Dinah took a deep breath and sighed it out, racking her brains for a solution, an avenue to more information.

"I'll look into it," she announced grimly.

"I was hoping you'd say that, kid," Montoya smirked.

Dinah almost smiled, but covered it up by clearing her throat, shifting back into the practiced seriousness she'd adopted from Bruce when speaking to people as Black Canary.

"Who was your source?" she hissed.

"Ah c'mon, I gotta protect my sources from Black Canary," Montoya chuckled, then shrugged helplessly. "Vicki Vale. She's looking into Daggett and put the pieces together on our three disappeared public servants."

"Vicki _Vale_?" Dinah used her real voice by accident.

Montoya noticed, her eyebrows raising.

"Yeah," she said cautiously. "You know she dates Bruce Wayne? Damn shame that, she's fucking cute."

Dinah was trying to plot a connection between Vicki investigating Daggett and Vicki being manipulated by Harley, but Montoya's observation that Vicki was _'fucking cute'_ managed to slice right through that train of thought.

Dinah hadn't realized Montoya was gay, and she suddenly felt weirdly _distracted_ by the revelation that she was standing across from someone who was like _her_.

She had _questions._

But Dinah shook those questions and feelings off. Now was not the time for distractions. Now was the time to find out what Harley was planning and save lives.

"I'll look into Daggett," she said, not bothering to disguise her voice this time.

Dinah's voice wasn't internationally recognized as that of a billionaire playboy.

Why bother to hide who she was.

* * *

About six months ago, Vicki swapped out her ten-a-day Lucky Strike habit for a raspberry-flavored Juul. But after the week she'd just had, she was back to Luckies, smoking them out her office window as she stared at the little figures moving down the street below, trying to understand how she'd gotten to this place.

Almost as soon as the Riddler— _Ed_ , as he'd cheerfully introduced himself—left her office, Vicki called Jonny Frost to get his take on the situation. He was calm, collected, and made Vicki feel like she was speaking to the only sane adult available considering the other flamboyant characters involved in this conspiracy.

Because that's what it was, no matter how you sliced it. There was a conspiracy to influence the very fabric of Gotham society, and somehow Vicki had become part of the push back against it.

Frost encouraged her to sit down, have a cigarette, and tell him everything, which she did. For reasons she wasn't currently inclined to examine, Vicki trusted Frost, and together they came up with a halfway decent excuse to give Bruce. Vicki needed to figure out who to speak to at Wayne to get some answers about what kind of damage this Anarky person could do if he were unleashed.

Lying to Bruce felt awful, but Vicki was too far down the rabbit hole to look back now. With some hindsight, maybe she should have warned Bruce about what was happening. Instead, she'd chosen to sneak around like the sleazy tabloid journalist she was constantly trying to prove she wasn't. Not just to protect Bruce, and not just because Harley compelled her to, but because Vicki wanted to see Sionis, Hill and Daggett taken _down_.

Bruce asked Vicki to come over for dinner, but she declined, saying she had too much work to do. He accepted this with a sympathetic sad face emoji and sent her Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, personal cell phone number. As the former director of Wayne's research and development department, Lucius was the best person to speak to about IT. And he was all too happy to make himself available the following morning for a meeting.

Not long after that, Vicki got a text from Ed.

_Miss Vale! 10.30 PM, the alley behind Butch's Deli on Orchard and 73rd. Kisses!_

"Fuck," Vicki hissed, chewing her bottom lip. She had expected the park bench again, not a back alley Downtown. That was like asking to be murdered.

And for reasons Vicki could not explain, the only thing that made her feel safe about it was the knowledge that Harley would be there.

She decided to walk the fifty-three blocks from Midtown to the lower echelons of Downtown Gotham, which took about an hour. Over that walk, she smoked seven Lucky Strikes in rapid succession, leaving her feeling sick and shaky from an excess of nicotine. When she reached the deli, she was ten minutes early, so she stepped inside and ordered a sandwich, choosing something at random off the deli's sticky laminated menu. Then she sat at the counter, trying to eat despite nicotine-induced nausea.

Obviously, it was too much to ask for Harley to be on time, leaving Vicki with little else to do but pace up and down the slowly darkening alley, which was lined with sweating garbage bags that looked and smelled like they'd been collecting for weeks.

Even though she knew it would make her feel worse, she lit another cigarette, the taste comforting on her tongue despite her pulse throbbing in her ears, which was decidedly not _only_ due to her relentless smoking.

Then finally, a gray Toyota Corolla looking like it could have done with a trip through a car wash pulled into the alley. Vicki wrapped an arm around herself defensively and took a long drag off her cigarette, rocking from one foot to the other as Harley climbed out of the car.

Harley looked like shit. She was pale with dark circles under her eyes, her platinum hair tied in a fat, messy knot on top of her head, and though it had been less than a week since she'd last seen her, Vicki thought Harley looked like she'd lost weight, her cheekbones sharper and eyes bigger.

She was also wearing a bubblegum-pink dress with a short, full skirt and a pair of slouchy white boots, both of which felt overly attention-seeking and contributed to Vicki's sense of unease.

"Hey," Harley greeted her distractedly, her eyes darting up and down the alley as the Toyota slowly backed out and pulled onto the street. She came to a stop in front of Vicki and looked her over. "God, you look terrible," she observed, without sympathy.

"Thanks," Vicki said miserably. "I like your dress."

"Mm," Harley made a face, looking up and down the alley again, more paranoid than Vicki had ever seen her. "Ed picked it out and he has very… _big_ taste."

"You mean the _Riddler_?" Vicki demanded, taking another drag off her cigarette, glad she had it even if it made her feel worse. "What the hell is going on, Harley? Why did you send the Riddler to my _office_?"

Harley sighed, closing her eyes like she was trying to center herself.

"Look, I know he's a lot," she admitted. "He's driving me fucking crazy right now. But I'm running a little low on resources, and like him or not, Ed is good to have on our team."

"This is insane," Vicki shook her head.

"I know," Harley agreed, catching Vicki's eye. "You're doing a really good job, Vicki."

"A good job?" Vicki laughed incredulously.

"Yes," Harley insisted, taking a step closer. She searched Vicki's face for a moment, her blue eyes intense. "I know you're… out of your depth," she said cautiously. "But you have to do this."

Vicki knew Harley was telling her what she thought she needed to hear, and in truth, she did want to hear it. But as she watched Harley watch her, she felt a little sick realizing Harley was examining her like something foreign she didn't fully understand. Like she could only grasp what Vicki was going through intellectually but couldn't really _empathize_ with her.

"Listen," Harley said, her voice low. "Things are about to get really dicey. I need to know I can trust you, Vicki."

"This doesn't _already_ count as really dicey?" Vicki scoffed, trying to take another drag off her cigarette only to find it had burned down to the end. She tossed the butt away.

"This absolutely counts as dicey," Harley snapped, her face suddenly twisting like she was in pain. "Do you know what Roman said to me? What he wanted to _do_ to me? What he did to his _girlfriend_?"

Vicki's eyes widened. "His _girlfriend_?"

"Her name was Samantha Pierce," Harley scowled, her face tense. "He renamed her Circe after he cut out her tongue and tortured her."

" _Circe_?" Vicki's mouth went dry as she remembered Hill's publicist, the weird blonde who didn't speak.

Because she'd had her _tongue_ cut out.

Vicki ran her hand through her hair, horror sweeping through her, making her heart pound hard in her neck as she grappled with the shock of learning she'd been so close to something so… _evil_.

"J almost _died,"_ Harley continued, more emotionally. "Roman cut his wrists open so he would bleed to death in front of me. Vicki, he stopped breathing, and he almost died in my fucking _arms_."

Her voice started to wobble, and she closed her eyes, sucking down a shuddering breath as she struggled to pull herself together.

Vicki found herself speechless, stunned by what she was hearing, and unused to seeing this _vulnerability_ on Harley. It looked misplaced, as misplaced as her pink dress, and Vicki wasn't sure how to react other than to ignore the impulse to offer _comfort_. Because that's what she wanted to do, standing there in a dark alley with a murderer who didn't deserve her sympathy, Vicki wanted to comfort Harley when she felt vulnerable.

"Listen," Harley pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, looking exhausted. "Ed told you about Anarky. I need you to find out if it's possible for a hacker, and I mean a really, really, _really_ good hacker, to bankrupt a company like Wayne Enterprises via a cyber-attack or maybe a virus."

"I have a meeting with Lucius Fox tomorrow morning," Vicki said, woodenly. "Wayne's CEO. Bruce says he's the person to talk to."

"Good," Harley nodded, relieved. "Alright, here's what I need you to do." She met Vicki's eye again, and Vicki nodded for her to continue. "You have to plant an idea in Fox's head. You suggest that there's been," she fluttered her fingers and made a face. "Chatter, or whatever, about a cyber-attack. Give him just enough detail to take action, but not enough that he suspects anything."

"Plant an idea?" Vicki frowned. "You want me to manipulate him?"

"I want you to save Wayne Enterprises and cover your ass," Harley countered. "Why does it matter _how_ you do it?"

There was a whole string of ethical arguments to contest Harley's point, but Vicki saw little point in indulging in them now.

"Alright," Vicki agreed numbly, finding Harley's eye again. She was watching her warily. "How are things about to get dicier?"

"I'm working the Riddler," Harley said flatly. "That should speak to the precarious nature of what we're doing."

"And what _are_ you doing?" Vicki pressed.

"Taking down Roman," Harley snapped, her eyes blazing. "One proxy at a time until we get to him. But first, we need… practical things…"

"Guns," Vicki filled in quietly.

Harley shrugged and opened her mouth to say something else when there was a quiet _rustling_ on the other side of the alley.

She spun around so fast Vicki nearly stumbled backward, her eyes widening as she watched Harley plant her feet like she was preparing to fight, her whole body tensing as she searched the dark alley for an enemy.

Alex Knox appeared, holding his hands up in surrender and wincing.

"Yikes, sorry, sorry," he apologized, playing the buffoon as he always did. "Didn't mean to surprise you, gals."

" _Alex_ ," Vicki hissed, dread flooding her. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"You gotta story in you, Vale," he smirked, holding up his camera, apparently completely unaware of the danger he'd just walked into. "I can smell it."

"Vicki," Harley said coldly, her stance suggesting Knox was dangerous instead of a bumbling idiot. "Do you know this person?"

"He's my photographer," Vicki said tightly, trying to convey to Alex with her eyes that he needed to run. _Fast._ "He doesn't know anything."

"Really," Harley rolled her shoulders back and took a few slow steps toward Knox, whose eyes widened as she drew closer. "He doesn't know anything."

"Uh, look, lady," Knox looked between Harley and Vicki, who widened her eyes, silently pleading with him to run. For god's sake, _run_. "Sounds like this may be personal, I just thought…"

"You just thought, _what_?" Harley growled, advancing on him. She was less than half his size, and she wasn't armed, but her presence alone was enough to make Knox back up a step. "You thought hey, I'll follow my female colleague down a dark alley. That sounds like a reasonable thing to do?" Harley demanded, her voice lowering as she crowded Knox up against the wall.

"Lady, I didn't mean anything by it," Knox insisted nervously.

"Really?" Harley snarled. "You didn't _mean_ anything by it."

"Harley, don't," Vicki sputtered, staggering forward. "He doesn't know anything. Just let him go."

Knox's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and Vicki instantly realized her mistake.

" _Harley_?" Knox asked, his eyes rolling over Harley, from the floppy knot of greasy platinum hair to her wild blue eyes, to her pink dress and slouchy white boots. She was Harley Quinn and it was impossible to ignore once you realized it was her in front of you.

"Listen…" Knox said, holding his hands up. "I swear I don't—"

But Harley launched herself at him before he could say anything else. She pulled what looked like a filleting knife out from the hem of her dress and held it against Knox's throat.

" _No_! Nononono!" Vicki chanted, racing across the alley.

But she was too late. Harley slit Knox's throat in one sharp movement, the tendons in her arm sticking out with the effort.

Vicki staggered to a stop, unable to find her voice to scream or cry or shout for help. She could only stare helplessly as Harley released Knox and let him slide down the wall into a pile of garbage bags. He was gurgling and paling fast, his eyes terrified as blood gushed red and wet down his chest, soaking his shirt as the life slipped out of him impossibly quickly.

Harley knelt beside Knox and used the tail of his plaid shirt to wipe his blood off her hands and the knife. The gurgling slowly stopped, and she rocked her head from side to side before rising back to her feet, turning to face Vicki.

Vicki had never seen Harley look so calm, and she half expected her to pretend nothing had happened. It seemed so easy for her. Like she'd done nothing more egregious than throw recycling in a trash can.

"You didn't have to kill him," Vicki said breathlessly, staring at Harley so she wouldn't have to look at Knox's body.

"Yes, I did," Harley countered calmly, walking up to Vicki and laying her hands on her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze.

It was the first time Harley had ever touched her. Vicki expected herself to recoil but feeling Harley's hands through her blouse, squeezing her to ground her, to remind her _she_ was still alive, it made Vicki feel… _safe_.

"He saw you talking to me, and he would have told the police," Harley continued, her voice low and soothing as she rubbed Vicki's arms. She met Vicki's eye, drawing her in so all she saw was an endless sea of glacial blue. "Your life would be over if anyone found we're friends. That we work together."

Vicki stared at Harley, torn between being horrified by what she was saying and accepting what she was saying was true. The latter inspired a placid numbness that allowed Vicki to ignore everything happening around her, which felt far more preferable.

"I saved you, Vicki," Harley added, offering her a small smile. "And I'm going to save Bruce too."

Then she took a step closer and wrapped her arms around Vicki, pulling her in for a hug.

"It'll be okay," Harley promised her.

Completely at a loss for what to do, Vicki leaned into the hug, letting Harley rub her back. She felt lost and confused, so she accepted the gesture of comfort, and she slowly lowered her face to Harley's bare shoulder, her eyes trained on a bruise that looked like a hickey there.

Her skin smelled sweet and a little musky, almost… _rotten_.

Just like all the best perfumes, Vicki thought numbly.

* * *

Hugs, and all other gestures of comfort, were not what you might call Harley Quinn's forte. But when she turned around to find Vicki looking like she was about to vomit or implode, she knew something had to be done if Vicki was going to play her part and play it well. That meant… hugging.

As Harley awkwardly patted Vicki's back, pretending she knew what she was doing, Ed pulled Lee's dusty old Corolla into the alley again, coming to a screeching halt. Harley pulled away from Vicki, forcing her to look her in the eye.

"I'm going to take you home, but we've got to meet someone first," Harley explained with a tight smile.

Vicki nodded weakly, and Harley looped an arm around her shoulders, leading her over to the Corolla and pulling the back door open before guiding Vicki inside.

The Joker was slouched on the other side of the backseat, his eyebrows raising when Vicki slid into the middle seat, followed by Harley. She shot him a warning look that he countered with a bewildered shrug while Vicki slumped between them, her shoulders hunched and her eyes on the center console.

"Ooh, bringing along a _stowaway_?" Ed crooned, craning his head around to look at them from the driver's seat.

"Shut up and drive," Harley snapped, putting her arm around Vicki again. "Have you got a cigarette for her?" she asked the Joker

"Uh," he squinted at Harley and then at Vicki, then muttered something to himself and snagged a pack of Marlboro Reds from his suit jacket, pulling one out with his teeth before he offered them to Vicki.

"So _, Vicki_ , how's _things_?" Ed sang cheerfully, smiling at them in the rearview mirror as he pulled the hatchback out of the alley.

"Vicki's not in the mood to chat," Harley said sourly, watching the Joker offer Vicki a light.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Vicki turned and addressed the Joker directly.

"Do you have any whiskey?" she asked him, exhaling a stream of smoke out of the corner of her mouth. "You seem like the kind of guy who would carry a flask," she added flatly.

The Joker narrowed his eyes at her curiously, accurately reading the strain in her face.

"Uh, not _on_ me," he flashed her one of his more charming, rakish smirks, much to Harley's relief. "But that don't sound like a bad idea to _me_ , pussy cat."

So they stopped at a bodega, and Harley hopped out to buy a small bottle of Jim Beam, hoping it would keep Vicki calm until she could get her home. Then they drove the five blocks to Ed's diner, each of them taking swigs from the small bottle for courage or for nerves or just because it was there in Ed and the Joker's cases.

The small parking lot out front of Ed's Diner was blessedly empty when their bizarre group climbed out of the dusty little hatchback. Vicki drained what remained of the Jim Beam - there wasn't much left - and tucked the empty bottle in her bag before turning to Harley.

"Who are we meeting?" she asked, looking subdued or even resigned, which was much better than like she was going to vomit.

 _Progress_ , Harley thought.

"We dunno," the Joker shot Vicki a smirk over his shoulder as they headed for the chrome diner.

"You don't know?" Vicki frowned. "Couldn't this be a trap?"

"Yep," Harley said drily.

"Don't worry, Vicki, we'll protect you," Ed grinned as he pushed the diner's door open and held it for them. "We've got about eight kitchen knives between the three of us."

The Joker chuckled throatily as he stepped into the diner with Harley on his heels and Vicki trailing after her, while Ed brought up the rear. They certainly made a strange-looking group for a place that usually catered to working-class men of the manual laboring variety. Harley glanced down at the pink dress Ed bought her, and then at the Joker in front of her, his navy-blue pinstripes outrageous under the fluorescent lights even if it was tame compared to his trademark violet.

She looked over her shoulder at Ed and Vicki—Vicki pale and a little rumpled in her work clothes, Ed sleek, stylish, and smug as hell, his strawberry blonde hair coiffed in his usual rockabilly style thanks to a generous shellacking of old hair products of Lee's.

Harley sighed and tried to focus on what was in front of her. All they knew was Frost told Ed he had someone for them to meet. That could mean anything, but they were running low on options. And it was true that they'd raided the knife block in Lee's kitchen and were carrying eight blades between them just in case things went to hell. They didn't have access to any other kind of weapons, and the only money they had was what they'd scrounged off Lee without robbing her blind.

Not ideal.

But then Harley spotted Frost waiting for them beside a booth at the back of the diner, and her eyes widened when she saw who was waiting in the booth with him.

Alexandra Kosov.

She was a tall, imposing woman with steely grey eyes and short blonde hair tied back in two stubby french braids, her face composed in a perpetual scowl. She was already glowering at Harley across the restaurant, her eyes narrowed with pure loathing, and not without a good reason. Harley killed Alexandra's father the previous autumn when she smashed his head in with a brick.

Apparently, it took him three days to die.

These days, Alexandra Kosov ran the entirety of the Eastside. She controlled all of the muscle in Gotham and at least half of the arms dealers. She was a close associate of Black Mask, quite possibly a member of the False Face Society, and she was an anarchist. If Frost told her who Roman really was, it was completely plausible that she was there to flip on him.

The Joker smirked at Harley over his shoulder, obviously thinking the same thing, and Harley had to smother a grin of her own, offering him a cheeky wink instead.

Things were about to get _very_ interesting.

"Boss, doc," Frost nodded respectfully at each of them and stepped aside so they could climb into the booth. "Ed," he added, looking unimpressed. "How ya doing, Vicki?" he continued, more kindly.

"Frost, I think Vicki could use a coffee or some pie," Harley said, shooting him a loaded look, and he nodded.

"C'mon Vicki, they got a great peach cobbler here," he rumbled, guiding Vicki away as Harley slid into the booth beside the Joker, and then Ed squeezed in beside her, wiggling close and flashing her a grin when she shot him a dirty look.

"Alexandra _Kosov_ ," the Joker purred, planting his elbows on the chrome tabletop and leaning forward, looking wolfishly pleased. "What a _charming_ surprise."

Alexandra glared at each of them in turn, her gray eyes lingering on Harley.

"So," she said in lightly accented English, a product of being raised around her father's Ukrainian thugs. "That's what you look like without all that shit on your face," she sneered.

Harley and the Joker exchanged an amused look.

"Edward," Alexandra continued, her lip curling as she examined Ed. "Or should I say… _Riddler_."

"Oh, I'd _love it_ if you would," Ed gushed happily, folding forward. "Don't be mad," he begged, feigning a pout that made her sneer again.

"Let's cut the shit," Harley suggested, smiling good-naturedly. "I take it Frost filled you in on who Roman is and all of his…"

" _Bullshit_ ," the Joker suggested drolly.

"His evil plans," Harley amended, raising an eyebrow at Alexandra. "So… what are you going to do about it?"

Alexandra ran her tongue over her teeth, considering her words carefully.

"You must feel kinda silly, huh?" Ed jumped in cheerfully, planting his chin in his palm. "Harley told us about the cloaks and masks." He cringed, ignoring Alexandra's scowl. "Talk about a fashion _disaster_."

"Ed's not wrong," Harley pointed out. "How did Roman convince you to join his cult?"

"Things have been good for my people since Black Mask appeared," Alexandra snapped, obviously not wanting to get into the details of her cult-joining. "But I have had… concerns."

"But not about the cloaks, huh?" Ed scrunched up his nose.

"And now that you know who he really is?" Harley asked, ignoring Ed as she focused on Alexandra. "A capitalist scumbag who wants Hamilton Hill to be mayor?"

Roman Sionis wasn't just a capitalist scumbag. That was perhaps his least revolting quality. He was an entitled psychopath, a misogynistic narcissist, a demagogue, a master manipulator. And after learning what he'd done to Circe—to _Samantha_ , he was a rapist in Harley's book too.

She licked her lips, her throat getting thick with real anger.

"You know he had a fiance named Samantha," she said, her cheeks getting hot. "He tortured her so she would be _obedient_. He cut her tongue out so she couldn't speak, and he tortured her sisters to death in front of her. Then he killed her when he decided he wanted me instead of her, and he was planning on doing the same thing to me. To make _me_ obedient. To make _me_ submit."

Alexandra's nostrils flared, her steely eyes narrowing. Maybe on Samantha's behalf as a fellow woman. Or maybe she was imagining having that done to herself or someone she cared about. Or maybe she just thought it was fucking despicable.

"I propose we make a deal," Alexandra said after a stretch of silence. "I will help you take Sionis down. We work together on this. But after." She shook her head, glaring at Harley again. "After, things are just the same."

"Aww, now that's too _bad_ ," the Joker purred, lifting an eyebrow at Alexandra. "Here I was hopin' we could be _pals_."

"If you think I will forget—" Alexandra started to launch into a spiel about her father, but Harley held her hands up first.

"We know, we know, just stop," she rolled her eyes. "That is more than fine with us. We work together now. We try to kill each other once Roman's dead. Deal?"

Alexandra growled something under her breath, but eventually, she nodded. "Deal."

"How _exciting_ ," Ed giggled, wiggling his shoulders. "Now what happens?"

"We take out the rest of the False Face Society," Harley announced, catching Alexandra's eye. "Do you know who the other three are?"

"Four," she corrected moodily. "The Scarecrow has joined our ranks."

"I _knew_ it," Ed huffed, sounding emotional, making the rest of the table roll their eyes.

"That's to Roman's detriment," Harley said."Jonathan is brilliant in a lab, but in the real world, he's a godawful criminal."

"Mm," Alexandra seemed to agree. "I know Miss Lucy is one of the four, but I do not know the other two."

"Hill and Daggett," the Joker growled.

"So it's you, Lucy, Hill, Daggett, and now Crane," Harley said, still eyeing Alexandra curiously.

"It's the election tomorrow night," Ed pointed out with a smirk. "What better way to take out Hill than on stage just after he's sworn in as mayor?"

The Joker hummed his enthusiastic agreement for this idea.

"Ooh, and what about Lucy?" Ed's eyes widened. "Are you gonna kill her?"

"Lucy's just a pawn," Harley said thoughtfully, smiling as an idea came to her. "We just need to give her some motivation to split from Roman."

"We're _definitely_ killing Alberto," the Joker announced drily.

"Definitely," Harley agreed, thinking about Marty.

"Crane'll take care of himself," the Joker predicted, rolling his eyes. "Once Black Mask's dead the _Batman'll_ grab him."

"And we're dealing with Daggett separately," Harley added, glancing at Vicki where she and Frost were sitting at the bar, sharing a slice of pie.

"Roman stole their hacker," Ed explained to Alexandra, prompting Harley to glare at him for revealing this piece of information. _"What?"_ he whined. "She's on our team. She should know about Anarky."

"Anarky?" Alexandra asked mildly.

"It's an insignificant detail," Harley said, still glaring at Ed, who pretended not to notice though he looked suitably chastised. "We think Roman may use a hacker to take down Wayne Enterprises. We're looking into it tomorrow."

"Take down Wayne Enterprises?" Alexandra looked impressed.

"It would all become part of Daggett Industries," Ed explained cheerfully. "So rich people are all still rich, some rich people just get richer and others less rich and—."

"Do what you have to to take out Daggett," Alexandra held up a hand to stop Ed talking. "I will provide you with men and weapons and anything else you require."

Harley nearly sighed in relief, suddenly feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. The stress of being in the dark was lightning, and they were clawing their way back to the surface. Freedom was in sight.

"Frost will go with you to round up some guys," Harley said, laying her hand on the Joker's leg under the table, just because she wanted to touch him. "Let's start with Lucy tomorrow night. Maybe Hill too, depending on what we can pull together."

The Joker grabbed her wrist and moved her hand from his thigh to his crotch, making Harley snort out a laugh.

"Fine," Alexandra agreed, eyeing Harley warily. Then she reached into her lime green tracksuit jacket and pulled out an iPhone. "I have something for you," she said stiffly, swiping the phone screen twice before she pushed it across the table. "Someone is looking for you."

Harley's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"A lot of people are looking for me," she pointed out, tentatively picking up the phone.

"True," Alexandra replied wryly, catching Harley's eye. "But I sense this may be a person you would like to find too."

Harley looked down at the phone screen and laughed out loud at what she saw there.

"Holy shit," she grinned.

* * *

Vicki Vale was not an anxious person. In fact, not only did she handle pressure better than most, but she typically thrived under it. She took failure and praise in stride, her nose for investigative journalism guiding her through many high-stress, high-stakes situations, sometimes coming out unscathed, sometimes not, but never deterred.

Vicki tried to track a path backward over the past weeks, trying to understand how she was in this position. But it only served to confuse her more, the job of untangling where her motivations ended and Harley's began impossible.

She had agreed to help Harley to protect Bruce. She had agreed to work with her to take down Roman Sionis because for once, Harley was on the right side of a fight…

But was that even possible? Could Harley Quinn _ever_ be on the right side?

Maybe there was no right side. There was only _Harley's_ side and whoever was against her.

If that was the case, why did Vicki feel so comfortable existing on _her_ side?

Harley didn't see good and bad, right and wrong, and she made it seem so _easy_ to live that way. It was a luxury not to care, not to be burdened with morality or empathy, or respect for human life.

That wasn't the reality Vicki lived in, but she was in too deep to back out now. Vicki had made choices _she_ couldn't take back.

After the meeting at the diner—which she could happily say she knew nothing about—she'd gotten a ride home with Frost, unable to handle another car ride with a group of terrorists acting as if they were normal people. Harley and Ed's bickering made her nerves stand on end, and the Joker's very presence was like having a gun pointed at her head, never knowing when the trigger may or may not be pulled.

Once home, alone, it finally hit Vicki that Knox was dead, and he would not be coming back. He'd never bumble into her office uninvited again, leaving a trail of doughnut crumbs in his wake. He was just _gone_.

Grief set in, but not anger at Harley for killing him, and not _guilt_ over being the reason Knox stumbled into Harley Quinn's path in the first place. There was just sadness balanced with a placid numbness that blocked everything else out. Numbness, she attributed to Harley's influence. Numbness Vicki simultaneously craved and hated herself for.

Vicki knew she should have called the police, and she got as far as dialing 9 and 1 before she accepted what that would entail. It would entail giving a statement explaining everything that had happened, including her relationship with Harley. That meant incriminating herself, which wouldn't bring back Knox. It would only hurt Vicki.

And here was the most disturbing twist. Harley was now the only person she could trust.

Harley, who murdered Knox right in front of her.

Harley, who killed twenty people at City Hall just a week earlier.

Harley, who was complicated, capable of vulnerability, and needed help.

Harley, who seemed to think she needed _Vicki_.

Vicki took a Xanax and went to bed, sleeping through her alarm the next morning so she had to rush to get ready for her meeting with Lucius Fox. She tied her greasy hair into a sloppy ponytail and skipped breakfast in favor of coffee and cigarettes, and when she hopped on the metro to Midtown, she felt nowhere near mentally prepared to interview Fox, let alone plant an idea like Harley wanted her to.

But if Vicki could help destroy Roman and protect Bruce in the process, she could just about justify her actions, and possibly Knox's death too. She needed _results_.

Halfway to Midtown, she got a text from Harley: _How are you feeling? On your way?_

Vicki replied immediately. _Yes. Nervous and tired._

_Put your head between your knees, close your eyes, take deep breaths. Drink water._

Vicki looked up and down the train carriage, which wasn't overly populated at 11 AM, just after the morning commute. She put her head between her knees, closed her eyes, and took deep breaths, only looking up when another text from Harley came through, and then another and another.

They were instructions.

_Your investigation into Daggett led to unexpected places._

_Your sources say a group of anarchist hackers have plans to bankrupt Wayne Enterprises._

_Can Wayne stop it if they get ahead of the hackers?_

_Could the hackers be working for Daggett?_

_Juggling this investigation and your normal job is exhausting. You really need a vacation. But please don't tell Bruce - you wouldn't want him to think you're dropping hints!_

_You can do this - I believe in you, Vicki._

Vicki hung her head between her knees again, taking deep breaths until she reached Wayne Tower, the main hub for Gotham's metro system.

She was given a visitor's pass at reception, and took the elevator to the forty-third floor, where Fox's assistant greeted her. She accepted the offer of a glass of water, drinking all of it, and after a brief wait, she was escorted into Fox's office.

Vicki forced a smile as she shook Fox's hand. They exchanged pleasantries and took their seats and eventually got down to the business at hand.

"I'm sure Bruce told you, I've been looking into some anomalies at Daggett Industries," Vicki explained while Fox listened patiently. "Needless to say, the investigation has led me to unexpected places."

* * *

Lucius walked Vicki Vale to the elevator himself, offering her another glass of water and making sure she drank all of it before bidding her farewell. She looked exhausted and nervous, almost like she was about to be sick.

Lucius did not for a moment believe it was due to her heavy workload. She was exhibiting the behavior of someone _guilty_ of something.

He wasn't a suspicious man, but he wasn't a stupid man either.

So Lucius made two calls once he returned to his office, the door closed. First, to Wayne Enterprises' IT department to ramp up cybersecurity, and then to Bruce.

He needed to know what kind of questions his girlfriend was asking.

* * *

Afternoon was approaching, but neither Harley nor the Joker made a move to get out of bed, taking the opportunity to catch up on sleep while they had it—sleep would be in short supply as _events forthcoming_ started to play out, beginning with the bloodbath they intended to turn Hill's election party into.

The Joker was half-dozing, half turning over a creative idea for killing Roman, vaguely aware of Harley shifting around on the bed, obviously awake if she wasn't snoring her head off when her hand landed low on his stomach. It lingered there for a moment, then slid down his hip to his thigh, and by the time the Joker opened one eye to look at her, he was rock hard, and she was stroking him slowly. She offered him a crooked smile when she was sure he was looking, then lowered her mouth to lick his cock, her tongue slow and wet as it slid up his length, her eyes trained on his face.

He released a low, happy growl, prompting her to pull back and press her finger to her lips, inclining her head back at the door to suggest they should be quiet. Then she smiled again and bent over him, wrapping her lips around his cockhead, her silky tongue dancing over the tip.

The Joker's head fell back as he sighed roughly, the heat of her mouth and the roll of her tongue unbearably _good_. He knew she was trying to butter him up for what was happening later, and that was a little insulting, but there wasn't going to be much time for anything like this once _events forthcoming_ kicked off.

She hummed happily as she took more of him into her mouth, prompting him to shift up on his elbows so he could watch. She met his eye as the circle of her lips moved up and down his length, her tongue stroking the back of his shaft as she drew him in and out of her mouth slowly. And when he reached down to push her hair off her face, she closed her eyes and leaned into his palm, sucking his dick lazily, _prettily_.

"C'mere," he demanded, his voice low and raspy. He got a handful of her hair to yank her up to him, and she sent him a dirty look that made him laugh as she settled in to straddle his hips.

Harley positioned herself over him, and a little shiver of anticipation rolled up the Joker's spine as she angled his cock between her legs. There was a moment where they both held their breath, and then she was slowly sinking down, drawing him inside her, her eyes closing as her lips parted in a quiet sigh.

She went unbearably slow, rolling her hips in lazy circles before she'd grind against him, luxuriating in having his cock deep inside her. He slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, his fingers splaying out over her hip as he let his thumb graze over her clit. He watched her take a deep breath and hold it as her head fell back, and he realized she was struggling to be quiet so the annoying people wouldn't hear them.

Oh, _that_ seemed like a fun game.

The Joker sat up quickly, his hands shifting to her waist, pulling her down on him harder as he thrust up into her, watching her bite her bottom lip as he did it a second and then a third time, making a needy sound catch in her throat. He smirked and flipped her onto her back, wanting to see how far he could push her. Just _how_ badly did she not want Ed and Lee to hear her.

She huffed unhappily when he pulled out of her, making him chuckle as he slipped a hand between her legs, sinking his middle finger inside her as his thumb found her clit. He moved the two digits in time together, finding a lazy pattern that made her head roll back on the pillow, her face slack with pleasure as he lowered his mouth to her chest, pulling one pink nipple between his lips until she mewled softly. Her pussy tightened around his finger and he shifted to her other breast, using his tongue and his teeth to tease the sensitive little bud into a hardened peak.

"Shit," she whispered when he slid a second finger inside her, his mouth drifting down the line of her ribcage, and then over the knotted scar beneath it before he shifted lower, moving his fingers just a fraction faster as he focused his mouth on the gentle little _swoop_ where her hip bone curved up at the side of her abdomen. _"Oh,"_ she sighed throatily, rocking against his hand, trying to find more friction.

The Joker glanced up at her, his hand stilling.

"Har-ley," he sang her name softly, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. "Are you going to be a very _good_ girl and stay quiet?" He asked her slyly.

She licked her lips, hesitating because she didn't _want_ to be a 'good girl' in any sense of the word, and she always got hilariously _annoyed_ at him when he taunted her with that particular epithet in bed. Especially in light of her recent appreciation of _spankings_ , he suspected. But even if the Joker was taunting her with the smuggest possible look on his face, her options were limited to submitting and agreeing, or being stubborn and left high and dry.

As per usual, she found a third route.

"I can try," she said, her eyelashes heavy. "But I'm not promising anything."

He laughed quietly, finding this to be a good enough answer, and dove forward to run his tongue over her, feeling quite greedy himself as he sucked on her clit and lapped up her arousal. She released a shaky breath, her hands threading into his hair to pull it tight as she made a series of soft, strangled sounds. When he dipped his tongue inside her, she pulled his hair so hard his scalp stung, and when he did it a second time, a loud moan slipped past her lips.

He pulled away to look at her, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow.

In truth, the Joker did _not_ want anyone to hear her. All the fantastic little sounds she was capable of making, they were for _him_.

"Don't stop," she panted, her fingers still twined in his hair, tugging on it impatiently as he rubbed his nose against that little _swoop_ at her hip, humming thoughtfully.

"I dunno," he drawled, his voice raspy as he caught her eye, a _sneaky_ idea coming to him. "I don't think you _deserve_ it if you can't be _good_."

She scoffed impatiently but the Joker was already reaching over the side of the bed, grabbing her discarded underwear off the floor. He clambered on top of her, grabbing a handful of her hair, and yanking her head back. She got one soft gasp out before he shoved her panties in her mouth, effectively gagging her and making her eyes widen in surprise.

The Joker sat back on his heels to see how she would react, a smile growing on his lips when she fell back on the bed, and after a thoughtful moment, wagged two fingers at him coyly, gesturing for him to come closer. And even though _she_ was supposed to be the one submitting to being gagged, the Joker obediently followed her directive, pitching forward over her as she spread her legs wider for him.

"Always so _greedy_ ," he purred, stroking her with two long fingers.

She took a deep breath before looking up at him with big, lusty eyes, and even though she couldn't speak, there was little doubt about what she wanted. The Joker didn't consider himself particularly magnanimous, but when she looked at him like that he found it difficult not to give her exactly what she wanted, especially when all she wanted was _him_.

She moaned when his cock squeezed inside her, the makeshift gag quieting the sound as she clawed at his back, her legs curling around his waist. The Joker braced one arm beside her head so he could watch her face while he fucked her, slow and steady, but hard enough to make her gasp with each rough snap of his hips.

He grabbed one of her legs behind the knee where it was wrapped around him, yanking it free and pressing it into the bed so her legs were spread wider and could fuck her deeper. She whimpered and arched beneath him, her pussy getting wetter for him, making him exhale roughly as he moved inside her. His free hand trailed over her, palming her breasts and squeezing her waist, teasing her clit until she started to tremble, at which point he'd pull his hand away, not ready to let her find relief quite yet.

If you'd asked the Joker how he felt about morning sex two years earlier, or even a _year_ earlier, he might have squinted at you like you were insane. It was a foreign idea to him. But then he learned that morning was more of a _concept_ , and that lazy sex with a sleepy, relaxed, _bendy_ Harley was intensely satisfying when you were in the mood for it.

They groped one another almost desperately as their hips rocked together, pulling hair and squeezing flesh, leaving marks on each other's bodies and breathing each other in. The Joker's hand snuck between them again, searching out her clit. She groaned throatily when he rolled the little nub between his fingertips, her nails digging into his shoulder blades, her hips canted up eagerly to take him deeper.

This time he didn't stop when she started to writhe beneath him, mewling weakly as she began to come apart. She moaned something like _"Oh God,"_ that got muffled by her panties as she arched up off the bed, releasing more muted cries of pleasure and raking her nails up his sides, breaking the skin.

The Joker growled quietly when he felt her come, holding his own climax at bay even as her body fluttered around him, making it obscenely tempting to cum. He shifted so he was sitting back on his heels instead of hovering over her, hauling her leg up between them so her ankle was against his shoulder as he started to fuck her hard and fast. He ignored the squeaking bed as he rubbed her clit in time with his jerking hips, determined to make her come a second time. With what they had to deal with later that day, he wanted her to remember this.

She was panting weakly through her nose, keening quietly as his hips slammed into hers, her body over-stimulated. But Harley was not some _shy_ little thing who shrank away from pain or discomfort. She embraced it lustily, bucking against him, her eyes begging him to fuck her harder as she chased a second release.

"C'mon, Harl," he growled, breathless. "Cum for me like a _good girl_."

She released a high pitched whine and climaxed again, her pussy spasming around him, and the Joker didn't bother to hold back when his own release washed over him. He pitched forward as he spilled inside her, yanking on her hair hard and snarling into her neck as she continued to gasp and writhe with pleasure beneath him, lost to sensation. Lost to _him_.

They took a minute to lay there and catch their breath, and then the Joker tugged Harley's panties out of her mouth for her. She licked her lips a few times, making a funny, uncertain face that made him chuckle.

"You were about this close," she croaked, holding up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "From telling me to call you daddy." Her arm flopped back down on the bed bonelessly.

"I am _now_ ," the Joker smirked, making her snort drily. She knew better by now than to tell him not to do something because then he would be almost _certain_ to do it.

"Mmhm," she chuckled sleepily. "What time is it?"

Oh. _That_.

The Joker grumbled unhappily and fell on his side beside her.

"Stop being such a baby," she laughed, swatting him on the chest before she rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom. "You need to shave. You're all scratchy," she added over her shoulder, leaving the door open.

The Joker ran his tongue over the scar splitting his bottom lip, the morning-afternoon sex making him notably _less_ unhappy than he would normally be about the situation. He contemplated growing a beard just to piss her off but wrote that idea off. Then he contemplated refusing her sex of any kind unless she called him 'Daddy,' but wrote that one off too. She'd figure out a way around it like she always did.

He sighed and loped into the bathroom where Harley was already in the shower, obviously in a fucking fantastic mood because of what the day had in store for them.

The Joker palmed his face, feeling the stubble that had come through since he'd hobbled in there and used Lee's safety razor a couple of days earlier—not exactly a close shave compared to the straight razor he preferred for the job. He let the sink run and set about scraping off stubble as best he could with the tools at hand, and he'd almost finished when Harley stepped out of the shower but left it running.

She lifted herself on her tiptoes so she could hook her chin over his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her wet body against his back.

The Joker caught her eye in the mirror, raising an eyebrow when he saw her sneaky smile.

"We still have fifteen minutes," she pointed out, one of her hands sliding down his abdomen.

The Joker tongued the scars inside his cheek, smirking at her in the mirror as she pulled on his earlobe with her teeth and rubbed her nose against his neck.

"And uh, what d'ya have in mind?" He asked her slyly, his dick getting hard again when she started to touch him.

She hummed against his neck, then pressed her lips against his ear.

"You didn't let me finish sucking your cock earlier," she murmured, making him chuckle.

"Stop tryin' to butter me up," he turned to look at her over his shoulder, and she widened her eyes innocently.

"I'll call you daddy if you want," she offered, making him snicker again.

There she went finding a way around that chance to get her all mad. Now he had to think of something sneakier to outmaneuver her when she wouldn't see it coming.

He pulled her hand away and turned around to face her.

"Fifteen minutes, huh?" He pushed her wet hair over her shoulder.

He waited for a beat while she looked up at him expectantly, then grabbed her arm and yanked her forward, spinning her around and shoving her down over the sink.

Harley sucked in a startled breath and caught herself on the edge of the sink, looking up at him in the mirror as he stood behind her. Her eyes were bright as he smoothed his hand over the curve of her ass, and she gasped loudly when he spanked her, her eyes wide like she was _still_ surprised by how much she liked it.

He slipped his hand between her legs from behind, sliding a finger inside her without delay, and she exhaled shakily when he found that little _sweet_ spot, almost immediately getting her soaking wet. Her head fell forward as she groaned indulgently, and he spanked her again, harder this time, the shower covering her breathless whine from any annoying people who might have been listening.

The Joker cocked his head to the side, watching her face curiously in the mirror as he pushed a second finger inside her, waiting a beat as she tensed in anticipation before he spanked her again in the same tender, reddened place. The sharp _smack_ echoed around them as Harley cried out loudly, her body clamping down around his fingers.

She lifted her head to look at him, her pupils blown wide.

"Fuck me," she breathed, arching her back and pressing her ass back against him.

The urge to be contrary was there as it always was, but instead, the Joker gave her what she wanted. _Again_. She swore breathlessly when he pushed his cock inside her, her fingers flexing against the edge of the sink. He pulled her body back to meet his roughly, fucking her hard and fast, which seemed to be exactly what she was in the mood for if the sounds she was making while she clung to the sink were any indication.

He finished first, in part because Harley encouraged him to with some _extraordinarily_ filthy and creative language. But she was on the precipice by then too, trembling and gasping, desperate to cum. He yanked her upright by her hair, squeezing her small, soft breasts as he rubbed her clit and met her eye in the mirror, realizing this was an excellent opportunity to get one up on her.

" _You_ have a _very_ naughty mouth," he purred in her ear, knowing it wasn't so much _what_ he said but _how_ he said it that turned her on. "Aren't you _lucky_ that I'll fuck you like the greedy little _slut_ you are when you _beg_ for my cock."

She shrieked happily when she came, throwing her head back against his shoulder and bouncing on her toes while she chanted a breathless string of nonsense.

The Joker chuckled affectionately because it was just so _honest_ and so much _fun_. When she started to calm down, she slumped against him, and he let her lean on him, watching her catch her breath.

Then she glared up at him weakly, and he widened his eyes innocently.

"What?" He asked, playing dumb like he hadn't just pulled the Greedy Slut card. But Harley just laughed and shook her head.

She smiled at him, rubbing her palm over the smooth side of his jaw before she raised on her tiptoes to lick one of his scars like the weirdo she was, then climbed back into the shower to wash off the second round of sex.

The Joker picked up the safety razor to finish shaving, his mind quickly turning to their conversation with Alexandra Kosov and what she had promised them the night before. And what they had learned after that.

He scowled unhappily and raked off the last line of stubble from his jaw.

They got dressed in the only clothes they had, the _unsubtle_ ones Ed bought the day before, Harley checking her phone and chewing her bottom lip anxiously.

When they emerged from the bedroom, the Joker took up his usual spot by the window to smoke and glower at Ed, who was fawning over Lee, his new pet. It was obvious and ignited a competitive streak in him. Ed was a copycat first and foremost, something the Joker couldn't _stand_. Ed was also fucking crazy, which J had a great deal more patience for. But above all else, Ed was incredibly - _incredibly_ \- irritating, and that was a step too far in the Joker's book.

He wondered if Harley couldn't steal Lee away from Ed. That might be a nice way to wrap this all up.

Then there was a knock on the front door, and Harley rushed over to fling it open, beaming while Lee and Ed watched curiously.

The Joker sighed gruffly, his face souring as he lit a fresh cigarette.

Pamela Isley breezed through the front door, wearing blue denim overalls with a white camisole beneath, her feet outfitted in Birkenstocks, her red hair cropped to a blunt, practical bob. And she was dragging a huge suitcase like she was planning on staying for a while.

* * *

**A/N: Pam's back!**

**Poor Vicki :(**

**A nice round of morning sex through the Joker's POV before we jump straight into events forthcoming next week!**

**We saw a little something new from Dinah this week… I wonder if that's background noise for you guys or if it actually stood out. I know this series has a LOT of content, but it was established in the Harlequin that Dinah is gay for the record. She's also very, _very_ young. I have mini-essay about her sitting in my Tumblr drafts, but I kind of think you guys should just come to your own conclusions? I dunno. **

**Next: Pam makes herself at home and Harle** **y finally gets to play some offense as events forthcoming kick-off.**

**Please, for the love of god, comment or review!**


	19. Chapter 19

_Theme: Kim Petras - 'Massacre' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/Y3j488fXd8w)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/5LeZkX8yjYzjw70fDFUsnh?si=e8QP9oUlR5eHuOVgaqHbhw))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime.

19.

* * *

To stop a new Reign of Terror, Dinah needed to find out why Harley and the Joker were protecting Daggett—how they benefited from covering up whatever corruption he was being accused of. She and Bruce were having a heated debate about what a _discussion_ with John Daggget might look like; the straightforward way in Bruce's capacity as playboy billionaire, or a more vigilante-style approach.

Dinah had _not_ been aware that Daggett was so interested in Wayne Enterprises, but boardroom politics were hardly her MO.

Then they got the call from Lucius.

"Let me put you on speakerphone," Bruce said hesitantly, glancing at Dinah as he set the phone on the table between them.

Lucius started off expressing concern for Vicki's well-being before moving on to concern about the questions Vicki asked him. Even for a star investigative reporter, she seemed oddly well informed, but more importantly, Lucius got the sense that she had an ulterior motive. That she was _warning_ them about an imminent cyber attack. Though why she wouldn't just come out and say as much, or just tell Bruce instead of going to Lucius, he couldn't understand.

While Lucius spoke, Dinah's mind started to race, piecing together a puzzle that had been shifting and moving for weeks.

"It's Harley," Dinah insisted as soon as Bruce hung up on Lucius. "Vicki knows what's going on."

He frowned at her, almost pityingly. "Not everything is about—"

"This time it is, Bruce!" Dinah threw her hands up in an uncharacteristic show of anger.

Bruce eyed her warily for a moment, looking concerned, making Dinah want to _scream_.

"There's a connection between Harley and Daggett," she insisted. "A hostile takeover via anarchist hackers? Come on! That isn't something John _Daggett_ would come up with!"

"If Harley is working with Daggett, why would she send Vicki to warn us?" Bruce pushed back gently.

"There _has_ to be something bigger," Dinah countered. "Whatever she's planning, Vicki knows what it is. She's tangled up in this Bruce. She _has_ to be."

"Vicki is a reporter investigating Daggett," Bruce pointed out. "It could be as simple as her investigation parallelling ours."

"Then why did she try to _manipulate_ Lucius?" Dinah snapped. "Why not tell him or _you_ outright about this cyber-attack? Why is she being sneaky and acting like she has something to hide?"

Bruce folded his arms, his expression grim as he listened more intently, and Dinah tried to calm down, to lower her voice, but she couldn't quite manage it...

"Lucius said Vicki looked exhausted, Bruce. Imagine the toll it's taking on her to be dealing with Harley." Dinah huffed impatiently. "Harley's got Vicki hiding behind her job to do her bidding just like last time!"

"Alright, stop," Bruce held up a hand, conflicted. "I promise I'll talk to her."

"You _promise_ you'll _talk_ to her?" Dinah demanded incredulously. "She could be with Harley right this _minute_ —we need to find her _now_."

"I'll call her now," Bruce tried to placate, picking up his phone and swiping the screen. "See?" he held his phone to his ear as if that was supposed to be reassuring when it was just _exceptionally_ patronizing.

They both waited, the tension in the cave reaching a fever pitch the longer the phone rang, neither of them saying anything.

"It went to voicemail," Bruce admitted.

Dinah scoffed in frustration and spun around, storming out.

If Bruce wasn't going to do anything, then Dinah would just have to do it herself.

* * *

Pam was beaming, her green eyes glittering mischievously as she stepped into Lee's apartment, dragging a giant suitcase behind her. Harley's face split into a stupid grin, and she gave in to the uncharacteristic impulse to grab Pam and pull her in for a hug, making Pam laugh as she squeezed her back.

They hadn't seen each other for two months, not since they spent a week together in Peru, and as it always was, Harley had forgotten just how much she missed her friend. Basically, her only real friend, ever. Just as Harley was the only one who could keep up with the Joker, Pam was the only person who could keep up with Harley. And not just because of her abilities, but her similar personality type. Brash, unapologetic, _fearless_ —those were the traits that led her to do those weird-science experiments on herself in the first place. Those were the traits that made her _strong_.

Harley suspected this was the main reason why the Joker loathed her so intensely. He didn't _like_ anyone but Harley, and he didn't have space for anyone but Harley, and he couldn't _fathom_ why she would feel any differently.

 _"_ Oh, my _God_!" Ed nearly shrieked, ruining the moment. "Poison Ivy!"

Pam pulled away from Harley to squint at him, her pretty features shifting into something more cautious as she examined Ed across the room. Meanwhile, the Joker stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Come on," Harley muttered, inclining her head down the hallway. "Let's go talk."

"Yeah, okay," Pam agreed, following Harley but shooting Ed a wary look over her shoulder.

Once sequestered in the spare room where they could get some privacy, Harley collapsed on the twin bed while Pam pushed the door shut, her expression weaving between suspicious and concerned as she lowered herself onto the bed. They both sat cross-legged, facing one another, Harley shifting uncomfortably thanks to all the _spanking_ she'd demanded in the bathroom.

"Alright," Pam started, her face serious. "Who the fuck are those people? You _hate_ people."

"Well," Harley sighed. "Lee's the doctor who did my birth control implant, so when J got hurt, I tracked her down and she saved him. This is her apartment."

"Okay," Pam's eyes widened, Harley's answer giving her even more questions.

"The guy is Ed, and Ed is..." Harley rolled her eyes before she looked at Pam again. "Ed's the Riddler," she said flatly.

"Oh... _kay_... " Pam looked over her shoulder at the closed door like she was reassessing Ed's place out in the living room.

"Pam," Harley waited for Pam to look at her, wanting to get down to brass tactics. "What are you doing back in Gotham?"

They had only communicated very briefly over text the night before after Alexandra Kosov gave Harley a phone number for one Lillian Green, Pam's pseudonym. According to Alexandra, Lillian Green sought her out a day earlier, saying she was looking for Harley Quinn.

Harley and Pam exchanged a few coded messages, and Harley gave her Lee's address. Without Lonnie keeping tabs on things, it seemed too dangerous to communicate any more than that.

"Let's see," Pam deadpanned. "The last I heard from you, you're depressed and breaking up with J. Next thing I know, you're on a crime spree killing judges and shooting up City Hall." She held her hands up, offering Harley a wry smile. "No judgment, obviously. But then I try to call you and your phone says it's out of service. That phone doesn't _do_ out of service, and you always have it on you. So after a couple of days when I still couldn't reach you, I figured something really fucking bad must have gone down and I hopped on the first flight back to Gotham."

Harly folded her arms over her chest, trying to hide the swell of affection she felt for Pam at that moment, determined to be productive instead of sentimental.

"Did you drone Alexandra Kosov?" she demanded.

"No," Pam rolled her eyes. "Just some of her thugs _temporarily_ so I could find her and talk to her."

"What the hell did you tell her?" Harley asked, bewildered.

"I said I was Lillian Green and I had a job for Harley Quinn," Pam shrugged. "Alexandra basically took my number and told me to fuck off. Then you texted me last night, and here we are."

Harley nodded slowly, releasing a breath as she scrolled through possible scenarios that this was a larger plot by Roman. That he would outmaneuver her again by allowing her to have Pam now, only for it to lead to something worse later.

"Harley," Pam leaned forward, her hand closing around Harley's wrist, and Harley only just stopped herself from flinching away. She'd seen Pam touch too many people that casually only to take away their free will. "What the fuck is going on?" Pam demanded, looking worried.

Harley sighed moodily and looked down at the bedspread, which was dotted with little purple flowers.

"Let me just start from the beginning," she said.

From there, she told Pam the whole story, getting many disgusted scowls and dismissive scoffs as she explained the ins and outs of the situation, Pam absorbing all of it like a sponge. But when Harley got to the Wayne Foundation fundraiser, she felt herself run out of steam. Not just because of what happened in the crypt, but because of what she'd seen before that, which she had yet to tell anyone.

The Joker wouldn't care or understand. But Pam would.

"What is it?" she asked, watching Harley struggle to find the right words.

"So… I'm walking down a hallway, and a girl is walking toward me," Harley said slowly, meeting Pam's eye. "And… I'm pretty sure it was Dinah."

Pam's eyes nearly bulged out of her skull.

"Dinah?" she hissed. " _Our_ Dinah?"

"Yeah," Harley nodded, just as bewildered now as she'd been then. There were more than a few pressing issues that had pushed Dinah's reappearance to the back of her mind, but it was still one of the more startling. "Her hair was the same," she recalled. "But she was wearing a fancy dress and pearls and she looked… healthy."

Pam chewed on her top lip, blinking hard as she tried to find an answer.

"Maybe," she faltered and made a face. "Maybe she snuck in to rob the place?"

"Maybe," Harley agreed weakly. "I was sure she'd leave Gotham."

"I haven't thought about her in… _so_ long," Pam admitted, shaking her head.

"I was just glad she got out," Harley agreed, running a hand through her damp hair. "And didn't end up like, you know..."

"Like Roxy," Pam murmured, her face falling.

Harley sighed, recalling how upset she'd been when Victor took Roxy from her. Roxy had been her friend to protect, and he'd cut her into _pieces_. With time, those feelings of outrage over her death had faded, maybe because Harley had moved on and replaced Roxy with other things, other people.

Or maybe because it was obvious Victor had since suffered something satisfyingly horrific too.

 _Victor didn't like the blood,_ she remembered Roman saying, reminding her of what came after...

"Let's put Dinah aside for now," Pam suggested, gesturing with her hands like she was moving an object out of her way. "Dinah's in Gotham, she looks healthy, and she's either… dating a member of the trust fund brigade or robbing mansions." Pam shrugged gregariously. "What happened next?"

Harley laced her fingers together, feeling subdued.

"Someone knocked me out before I could go after Dinah," she explained woodenly. "And when I woke up… I was chained to the wall in Roman's family crypt, and J was across from me..."

Pam covered her mouth with her hand, too shocked to come up with a better reaction as Harley recounted what happened in the crypt and everything that had happened since.

"Jesus fuck," Pam said when Harley finished explaining about Alexandra Kosov flipping on Roman and Vicki giving Wayne Enterprises a head's up about a cyber attack from Lonnie, calling him Anarky for the sake of keeping circles closed. "That really is taking over the whole fucking city," Pam agreed, her eyes widening.

"No national guard, so he gets all the perks with none of the bullshit," Harley agreed, feeling drained. "I just want him dead."

"Yeah," Pam said thoughtfully, playing with her necklace, a long gold chain with a large emerald pendant. She looked up at Harley. "So, your plan is to kill everyone who works for Roman?"

"Hill's first," Harley smirked. "He's getting elected Mayor today, and tonight they're having a big party at Wayne Hall to celebrate."

"And you're just gonna walk into the middle of this party guns blazing and kill everyone?" Pam asked, her eyebrows rising.

"Yes," Harley squinted at her. "Why?"

"It just seems a little," Pam wrinkled her nose. "Short-sighted to get rid of Hill so quickly."

"We'll find out what he knows first," Harley insisted.

"Sure," Pam agreed, still playing with the pendant on her necklace. "But wouldn't it be better to make him more… useful?"

Harley's eyes widened, realizing what Pam was suggesting.

"You aren't seriously saying we drone Hill, are you?" she demanded, feeling an old flicker of annoyance mixed with dread over Pam's abilities and their negative effects on her mental health.

It had been like dealing with a drug addict. One addicted to the power she derived from controlling men's minds, nearly driving herself insane the longer she used— _abused—_ her abilities.

"No," Pam smirked, her eyes glittering. "Inception."

"You want to use inception on him?" Harley's eyebrows shot up. "I thought it takes weeks?"

"It _used_ to take weeks," Pam corrected smugly, leaning forward. "Remember, I told you the perfume helps me plant the idea in their subconscious?"

"Yeah," Harley glanced down at the pendant, watching Pam twist it on the chain. She realized it was a tiny perfume bottle.

"This is pretty much like anesthesia," Pam explained, holding up the small bottle so Harley could see the liquid sloshing around inside. "I made a few changes with the flora I found in Peru. They still do the googly-eyes thing at first, but then they go into more of a trance. Like they're sleeping but awake so I can talk to them and plant the idea in their psyche while they're relaxed."

"And that's it?" Harley looked up at Pam. "That's inception?"

"They never even realize what's happened," Pam smiled, flapping her hand. "They think this brilliant idea just came to them in a dream, and why hadn't they thought of it before." She sighed happily. "I just came from Brussels. I was there for a week, and now I have two members of the European parliament, a vice-chancellor, and a prime minister all ready to fight to save the planet."

Harley sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered Pam's offer.

Pam had a wonderfully flexible moral compass, something Harley had watched evolve in real-time when they first met. The more Pam used her abilities, the less concerned she became about what was 'good' and 'bad.' Now, she could shrug off mass shootings simply because Harley was the one pulling the trigger. Still, she would _probably_ never take part in one herself… unless it was a party full of big-oil bosses. But in general, violence for violence's sake just wasn't Pam's style. Everything she did was for one purpose: saving the planet. Or at least that was how she framed her actions.

There was a little more to it, in Harley's opinion.

So, while Pam could easily justify using inception on powerful people, Harley wouldn't have expected that group to include Gotham's greedy new mayor, who couldn't instigate the kind of change Pam wanted.

And setting aside Pam's feelings on the matter, Harley had already learned her lesson about taking shortcuts through Pam's abilities.

"It's not like before—I'm not connected to them, and I can't get them to do whatever I want," Pam insisted, seeing Harley's reluctance. "It's just one powerful idea that takes root and guides their actions." She leaned forward again, catching Harley's eye. "Harley, I just want you to be safe."

"We get Hill to betray Roman," Harley said slowly, remembering how useless and _stupid_ she'd felt having Ed and Crane turn on her.

She definitely liked the idea of giving a Roman a taste of his own medicine.

Backing him into a corner.

Taking away all his _options_.

"J isn't going to like it," Pam predicted drily, and Harley hummed her agreement.

"He's itching for a fight," she agreed, flashing Pam a smile. "So am I."

"So… you two are all made up now?" Pam asked warily.

"Yeah," Harley sighed, fighting off a dreamy smile as she thought about that morning—first in bed, then in the bathroom. "Please don't fight with him," she begged Pam. "For my sake."

"Hey, _I'm_ not the one you need to worry about," Pam protested. "He's the one with the problem."

"Oh, yeah," Harley shot her a dubious look. "Because you're so good at hiding your feelings."

"I'm not going to _hide_ my feelings," Pam scoffed. "Why don't you tell _him_ not to be a dick to me, huh?"

"Because he's…" Harley trailed off, knowing every argument she could make rationally explaining the Joker would be pathetic in Pam's eyes.

"Because he's an asshole who can't be reasoned or negotiated with, and who only wants to destroy things for his own stubborn nihilistic reasons," Pam rolled her eyes. "But you love him anyway, and he makes you happy, and it's not like he's hurting you. I know, I know."

"Please, Pam," Harley made her best pleading face. "Play nice? For me?"

"Playing nice doesn't come naturally to me, Harley," Pam said wryly, standing from the bed. "But, I'll try not to antagonize him for your sake."

"Thank you," Harley grinned, following her out of the spare room and back down the hall.

Lee was in the living room, smartly making herself scarce, while Ed and the Joker were huddled in the kitchen, talking. _Gossiping_ was probably more likely, both of them promptly shutting up when Harley and Pam returned.

 _Shit_. If the Joker was making nice with Ed over Pam, that didn't bode well.

"Hey, J," Pam said slyly, smothering a smirk because she _knew_ how much he hated her. "I like that suit."

The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth and strolled across the kitchen until he was toe-to-toe with Pam, looming over her. His head tipped to the side as he looked her over, from her Birkenstocks to her denim dungarees, to her blunt, practical haircut, his face souring.

Pam held her ground, raising an unimpressed eyebrow while Harley watched anxiously.

"Red," he greeted her bitterly, his eyes rolling to Harley. "Lemme guess... She's gonna use her uh, _voodoo_ and everything's gonna be peachy keen before we know it."

"It kinda feels like cheating to mind-control everyone back to how things were," Ed observed, wrinkling his nose. "Don't get me wrong, Ivy," he added, flashing Pam a smile with the nickname. " _Love_ your work."

"This isn't about making things how they were," Harley countered. "It's about taking away Roman's toys. It's about making him _weak._ " She looked at the Joker directly, needing to reassure him. "I have no interest in running the city."

He hummed quietly, mildly appeased but not quite happy.

"And this isn't mind control," Pam added, holding up the pendant for them to see. "This is about planting an idea in Hill's subconscious to guide his actions. I won't be controlling him."

"Torture works pretty good for getting people to do what ya want too," the Joker drawled, his voice thick with disdain.

Pam dropped the pendant so it swung back under her dungarees. She folded her arms over her chest, fixing the Joker with a scowl.

"Harley told me what Roman wants to do to her," she said. "I don't know about you, but I'm not letting that happen. If we use this on Hill, he will be plagued with a deep and _permanent_ desire to destroy Roman Sionis."

The Joker scoffed through his teeth - _"Psht"_ \- his lip curling.

"And what's gonna stop _you_ going off the deep end again, huh?" he sneered.

"This is different," Pam insisted, indignant.

"Oh, _yeah_? Cause you're pushin' this awful hard, Red," he shot back, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Like maybe _you're_ getting something out of it too."

"I just want Harley to be safe," Pam snapped. "Something _you've_ proved you're not capable of _multiple_ times."

" _Harley_ can look after _herself_ ," the Joker scowled, low and sinister. "She doesn't need _you_ , Red."

"Oh, and she _really_ doesn't need—"

"Okay, stop it," Harley stepped in, prompting them both to glare at her. Harley chose to look at the Joker. "Do you think this is a bad idea?" she asked him point-blank.

She could see he was remembering their conversation at Ed's apartment when she'd told him she would listen to him if he thought she was making a bad move. His eyes darted around her face as he thought it over, focusing on her as his brain rolled through possible outcomes. Then he sighed unhappily and pitched sideways to lean against the fridge, digging into his suit jacket for - you guessed it - his cigarettes.

"Is that a yes?" Pam asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

"It's a yes," Harley confirmed, still watching the Joker as he lit a smoke and met her eye. With that one look, he managed to express his unhappiness with the situation, which Harley recognized came down to suspicion of Pam more than anything else.

"So, what's the plan?" Ed asked, a dark twinkle in his eye. He looked around their small group. "Are we gonna kidnap Hill? Because I've got a _really_ good idea if we are."

"We don't need to kidnap him," Pam shot Ed a smirk. "I'll just change into something more Midtown-y and swing by his office later."

"I'm coming with you," Harley said immediately.

"Me too!" Ed jumped in.

 _"_ _No,"_ Harley said emphatically, her eyes narrowing at him. "You're staying here, Ed."

"Why _shouldn't_ Eddie come along?" the Joker drawled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Let him get out and uh, stretch his _legs_."

Harley folded her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at the Joker.

He gazed back at her impassively, his tongue slipping out to skate over his bottom lip.

"So you're coming too?" she asked him flatly.

"Oh _ho,"_ he chuckled throatily, offering her a nasty little smile. "You better believe it, _puddin'_."

* * *

Oldtown was one of the more derelict districts on the Eastside, populated by long-abandoned warehouses and factories, remnants of Gotham's pre-depression prosperity. The city-owned most of the land these old properties sat on, but Roman had recently re-purchased his father's factory, which the family lost along with the rest of the business in Janus Plastics' bankruptcy and Wayne Enterprises' subsequent liquidation of it.

Crane had _many_ thoughts on the subject of Roman's attachment to his deceased father's company… None of them particularly flattering for his new benefactor….

Over the week since their partnership first manifested, Roman kept Crane close at every turn, giving him a room to sleep in, clothing him, bringing him on errands and meetings. Crane was given the distinct impression that Roman was _clinging_ to him. Not because of his value as a colleague, but because the person Roman truly wanted had slipped through his fingers.

There had been a _tantrum_ the night Harleen and the Joker escaped. Roman returned to the penthouse, limping and bleeding, and promptly flew into a rage that left Crane feeling decidedly _uneasy_. Uneasy about Roman's _sanity_. With zero other options, Crane attempted to redirect that fit of fury into something productive, guiding Roman to Lonnie and giving him a demonstration of the fear toxin.

But instead of sparking a conversation about Crane's work, Roman continued to _fixate_ on Harleen.

It was _extremely_ disappointing.

Crane wasn't stupid. Over the past week, he'd seen more of Victor Zsasz and Arthur Reeves to understand what Roman truly wanted from Harleen. Both men showed accurate signs of trauma, their loyalty to Roman coerced, not freely given. Conditioning. Torture. _Brainwashing._

Crane chose not to reflect on his feelings on the matter.

Then there was Bruce Wayne. Another obsession, but longer-simmering than Roman's fixation with Harleen. Roman's loathing of the Wayne family was bone-deep, in his very DNA, sparked by a resentful, neglectful father who'd blamed the Wayne's for their troubles. Roman was methodical in how he planned to take down the Wayne empire, not emotional. This was the cold calculating of a plan that had been years in the works, a dream finally seeing fruition.

And Crane helped Roman find the crucial piece he needed to make his move.

Lonnie Machin.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Janus Plastics Plant. Roman's Rolls Royce was flanked by two black BMWs carrying henchmen, their presence near-constant since the Joker and Harleen's lucky escape. The extra men were a security precaution, but they were increasingly making Crane feel _kept_. Not quite imprisoned, but not quite free either. And with the promise of his work being dangled in front of him, the situation was steadily growing alarmingly similar to the setup Crane found himself in with the Joker, but with _far_ more discussion of Harleen. It made Crane feel cheap, knowing he was feeding a psychopath's obsession.

Crane stepped out of the Rolls into a gravel lot surrounded by a high brick wall topped with barbed wire. In the middle of the lot sat the Janus Plant, a large red brick building with huge smokestacks, which would have belched noxious black clouds half a century earlier.

Arthur Reeves was loitering beside the factory's main entrance, waiting for them. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his suit rumpled and shirt stained. His face was haggard, in need of a shave. Reeves was holding his hand close to his chest, a dirty bandage wrapped around it. He looked sick, unsteady on his feet.

Crane glanced sideways at Roman over the roof of the Rolls, watching him gaze up at the factory, a smile spreading across his face, nostalgic.

"Let's go say hello to Lonnie," Roman suggested.

"Lonnie is here?" Crane raised an eyebrow.

Lonnie had been well within the grips of the fear toxin when Crane last saw him, carted away screaming, thrown in the back of a black BMW. That had been a week earlier. He'd not heard a word about him since.

"Lonnie was unresponsive to our first discussion," Roman explained, circling the Rolls to meet Crane beside the hood. He looked up at the building again, smiling. "This is where I like to bring people who need more of my… _attention_."

Crane felt a lump form in his throat at that statement.

"Arthur," Roman greeted Reeves good-naturedly. "How is Mr Machin?"

"He's on the cross," Reeves explained, sounding strained.

"Very good," Roman reached into his blazer to pull out an orange prescription pill bottle.

Crane watched silently as Roman uncapped the bottle and shook a pill into his palm before shooting Reeves an expectant look. Reeves, who was built like an athlete, tall and broad-shouldered with a good half-foot on both Crane and Roman, dropped into an undignified squat, his head tipping back and mouth opening wide so Roman could deposit the pill on his tongue.

Reeves swallowed it dry and straightened back up again, blinking hard.

Crane watched this exchange anxiously, his intestines twisting in knots. But he kept his mouth shut all the same, sticking close to Roman's side as they followed Reeves into the plant's ground floor and up a staircase pinned to the wall.

"Do you know much about the CIA's conditioning program, Jonathan?" Roman asked as they climbed the rattly stairs, Reeves staggering ahead of them.

"I do not," Crane admitted warily.

"Project MKUltra, a fascinating case study," Roman explained. "Much more ruthless and far more effective than anything the KGB or North Korea could hope to come up with." He offered Crane a soft smile. "That's American innovation for you."

"Indeed," Crane agreed flatly.

"It's a process I like to use as a kind of warm-up act," Roman continued. They reached the top of the stairs and passed through a set of fire doors into a long hallway lined with offices. "White noise, contortion, induced exhaustion."

"I see," Crane replied tautly, bracing himself.

Reeves pushed open an office door and held it for them to pass through. It was a small room that smelled of urine and human waste. One wall was lined with shelves hosting various tools and devices, some antiques, some new and more advanced, all of them designed to carry out torture. A well-curated collection that Roman had clearly dedicated time and devotion to.

There were three heavy wooden crosses in X-shapes against another wall, and a small cage in the middle of the room, its door open. It seemed to be the source of the urine smell, and Crane could only assume Lonnie had been kept in that small cage for an extended period of time.

But now he was tied up on one of the wooden Xs, naked apart from a soiled pair of briefs. He looked delirious, his eyes rolling, his blonde head flopping from side to side.

Undressed, he was almost painfully thin, sharp ribs and ropy muscles, his body littered with more black anarchist tattoos like the ones gracing his neck and hands. Some were small and looked home-made with a needle and pen ink, others large and bold, wrapping around his left thigh, and proudly printed over his heart.

"How has dear Anarky been holding up?" Roman asked, shrugging out of his suit jacket and handing it off to Reeves, who hurried forward to assist him.

"He hasn't said anything yet," Reeves admitted, skittish.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on him, Arthur," Roman smiled, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "You've done very well."

Crane hung back by the door, out of Lonnie's line of sight, he hoped.

"Hello, Lonnie," Roman greeted him, drawing closer. "How are you feeling?"

"Lemme—lemme—" Lonnie slurred, struggling to keep his head up. "Lemme _go_."

"How about we make a deal instead," Roman suggested mildly. "You can end all of this now. I just need you to do a job for me."

"Psssht," Lonnie scoffed weakly.

"Hear me out first," Roman coaxed, looking amused. "I want you to help me destroy Wayne Enterprises. Bankrupt the company and the entire Wayne family."

"Psssht," Lonnie scoffed again, his head bobbing.

"Wouldn't you like to see Bruce Wayne penniless and humiliated," Roman pressed, moving closer. "Wouldn't you like to see him reduced to nothing, forced to sell his beloved material possessions? He's an oligarch, Lonnie. You could bring him to heel if you wanted to."

Lonnie shook his head, his jaw working.

" _Fuck_ you, man," he croaked at length. "You're so fulla shit... I can smell you from here."

Roman's face soured.

"You're loyal to the Joker, I understand." He turned toward the wall of torture devices, considering them before he settled on a long, curved blade, the steel glinting under the fluorescent lights. "But you're less fond of Harley Quinn. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement on her."

"You're fuckin' _crazy_ , dude," Lonnie shook his head weakly. "I ain't telling you _shit_."

"So, you're loyal to her, too," Roman glanced over his shoulder at Crane, looking displeased. "Interesting."

Crane shifted uneasily, unsure how to respond. Unlike Lonnie, he'd told Roman everything he knew, including about Lonnie's visceral hatred for Harleen.

Luckily, Lonnie saved Crane from having to explain himself.

"They're gonna fuck you up, man," he slurred, blinking hard. "You're _so_ screwed."

Roman sighed, examining the curved blade before he laid it against the tattoo in the middle of Lonnie's chest, a jagged A in a thick black circle.

Lonnie's thin chest heaved like he was bracing himself.

"This is your first chance to submit to me, Lonnie," Roman explained calmly, tracing the inky black circle with the knife. "Tell me where Harley is hiding. Help me take down Wayne. Help me do the right thing."

"I don't give a shit," Lonnie spat, the most clear-eyed he'd been yet. "I ain't a squealer like that pussy Scarecrow."

Crane's nostrils flared, indignation rippling over his shoulder blades.

But also… _helplessness_.

"As I said, this is your first chance," Roman reminded him good-naturedly. He pressed the curved blade to Lonnie's breastbone, its razor-sharp edge slicing along the line of black ink.

Lonnie hissed as a few fat beads of scarlet rolled down his chest. But he didn't talk. He swallowed and clenched his jaw, refusing to give anything away.

Roman met Lonnie's eye, offering him a soft smile. "You let me know when you're ready to stop."

Lonnie scowled outright. "Fuck you, man."

"We'll see about that," Roman smiled.

And he continued to smile as he flayed the tattoo off Lonnie's chest.

Lonnie didn't talk, but he did scream. He screamed until Crane's ears were ringing. Cortisol and adrenaline flooded Crane's brain, telling him to flee or to fight. But he did neither. Instead, he stood back and watched the carnage unfold, his heartbeat throbbing in his neck.

* * *

After a quick powwow to put together a plan of action, Pam changed out of her dungarees and Birkenstocks into a black pencil skirt and red patent leather pumps, applying a quick flick of eyeliner and mascara to transform herself from hippie environmentalist to professional PR woman.

Harley had taught Pam quite a few tricks, but costume changes hadn't been one of them.

Pam had been _very_ busy in the year since she left Gotham.

The Joker and Ed pushed Lee's garage door open, revealing the dusty hatchback and the blood-soaked Mercedes sedan Harley and Ed stole the night of the fundraiser. After some minor disagreement—only a death threat or two—over the practicalities of the situation, Pam slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes with Harley in the passenger seat. The Joker flopped into the back, unbothered about sitting in his own blood, while Ed laid down a deck chair cushion and perched on top of it.

It was a bizarre car ride. Harley and Pam discussed the European MPs Pam used inception on, and Ed forced his way into the conversation with facts and figures about Brussels and the European Union.

"He has a photographic memory," Harley explained, unamused.

"That's amazing," Pam squinted at Ed in the rearview mirror. "Do you have a mind palace to store everything?"

"Nah," Ed drawled smugly. "I just pull it out when I need it."

The Joker scowled and started muttering under his breath, looking like he was being subjected to the worst kind of torture having to listen to them converse, inspiring a pang of sympathy in Harley.

But he perked up by the time they got to Midtown. Harley could feel him vibrating with excitement from the backseat, anticipation over all the _possibilities_ growing as they drew closer to the Flatiron Building, where Hamilton Hill's office was on the top floor. Harley felt it too, her toes curling in her slouchy cream boots, her skin prickling like it always did before a job.

"This my favorite part," Ed announced, prompting Harley to look at him over her shoulder.

He'd shed the attention-seeking childishness he normally projected in favor of something far... _sneakier_. There was a glint in his eye Harley recognized, and a familiar sense of understanding she'd felt for Ed the first few times she met him reared its head again, replacing the irritation he normally inspired in her.

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk, and Harley mirrored it, her excitement over _events forthcoming_ blotting out everything that had happened between them.

Ed _understood._

By the time Pam pulled the Mercedes into the parking garage beneath the Flatiron Building, the tension in the sedan had built to a fever pitch. Even Pam, with her loathing of entitled men and her fierce protectiveness of Harley, she was positively _buzzing._

They slowed to a stop beside a parking garage attendant, a fat man with a full head of gray hair, and Pam offered him a big smile as she pretended to drop her wallet out the window.

"Oopsie," she beamed sweetly. "You couldn't grab that for me, could you?"

"Of course, ma'am," the attendant bent to pick up her purse with a grunt.

Pam grabbed his wrist when he passed the wallet back to her, making his eyes widen in alarm before his face melted into a lovesick smile.

"Thank you," Pam simpered, plucking her purse out of his hand. "Now, you're going to let us park over there by the stairwell, and if someone tries to get close to our car, you're going to distract them." She paused, narrowing her eyes. "Sound good?"

"Yes, Ms Green," the attendant agreed dreamily, pressing a button to lift the gate.

 _"_ _Thank_ you," Pam cooed, while Ed released a low whistle.

"Craaaaaaap," he hissed to the Joker, who rolled his eyes, unimpressed and twitchy.

Pam parked near the fire exit, and they all piled out of the car, taking the stairs back up to the street. Harley was hyper-aware of how odd their rag-tag group looked as they strolled up to the front entrance of the Flatiron, but for a glorious change, she wasn't worried about it. She and the Joker were an unstoppable force on their own, and with Pam alongside them, and Ed pitching in too, they would be virtually indestructible.

This was going to _work_ , she realized, feeling nearly giddy as she stepped through the gold plated revolving door into the building's lobby.

Harley was very familiar with the Flatiron Building and its ridiculous gold-plating and pink marble columns. The penthouse on the top floor belonged to the Falcone family, and Harly had lived there for a short time while working with Sofia. But she'd never had a reason to go through the front lobby before, always using the private penthouse elevator through the owners' entrance on the other side of the building.

Pam took the lead while Harley and the Joker kept their heads turned toward each other not to attract attention, and Ed pulled up the rear, a bounce in his step as his eyes darted around for perceived threats.

"Hi there," Pam greeted a receptionist behind a gold-plated desk. "That's a beautiful ring," she gushed, eyeing the girl's diamond engagement ring.

"Oh, thanks," she beamed, holding her hand up for Pam to see it in the light.

"So beautiful," Pam sighed, grabbing the girl's forearm, making her eyes widen before her face slackened into a dreamy smile.

"How can I help you, Ms Green?" the girl asked sweetly.

"We have a meeting with Hamilton Hill," Pam explained, the receptionist nodding along eagerly. "It's completely off the books. No one ever will ever know we were here. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Ms Green," the girl smiled and picked up a stack of visitor's passes, handing them over without reservation. "Take elevator F to the sixty-third floor."

"Thank you," Pam lifted her eyebrows at the girl. "And don't forget… you won't remember _us_ either."

"Of course, Ms Green," the girl grinned. "Anything for you."

The Joker scoffed noisily as Pam turned around to hand them their visitor's passes.

"Yeah, yeah," she rolled her eyes, pinning her pass to her shirt. "I almost forgot about your whole entitled, _man-child_ —"

" _Pam,_ " Harley hissed, nudging her toward a bank of elevators and shooting the Joker a glare over her shoulder. "Focus."

An attendant was waiting in front of elevator F, who checked their passes then used a key to let them into the private lift, which would take them straight to Hamilton Hill's office.

"Forget us," Pam chirped, giving the attendant a pop on the cheek as they filed into the elevator.

"Of course, Ms Green," the attendant winked, the gold-plated doors sliding shut.

The ride up was quiet at first. When Harley glanced at Pam, she saw her eyes were brighter than they usually were, almost _feverish_. Another old flicker of dread raced through Harley as she tried to decide if Pam was still connected to the people she'd just influenced, however briefly.

As if she could feel her staring, Pam turned to meet Harley's eye squarely and held out her hand. It was a test, Harley could see that. Pam was asking her to trust her, and after two long beats, she took Pam's hand and squeezed it, exhaling a slow breath when that awful wave of emotion that came with Pam using her abilities didn't come crashing over her.

She could trust Pam to keep herself in check.

This was going to _work._

"Hey J," Ed said slyly as the elevator shot upwards, the floors ticking past. "Has Ivy ever used her powers on you?"

"Oh, she _tried_ ," the Joker growled. "Turns out they don't uh, _work_ so well on a guy like me."

"A psychopath like you," Pam muttered darkly.

 _"_ _Labels_ ," the Joker shot back with a sneer, just as the elevator reached the sixty-third floor.

The doors dinged open, revealing a large reception room and a young receptionist, her attention on her phone. She looked up when they trooped out of the elevator, her eyes widening when she caught sight of the Joker, who had apparently decided he was finished pretending to be anything other than what he was for the day, his dark eyes gleaming dangerously.

"Don't worry," Pam said breezily, striding up to the desk and circling one side of it while Harley took the other, blocking the panicking receptionist's escape. "This won't hurt a bit," Pam promised, grabbing her by the elbow. "Why don't you take a seat," she suggested.

"I—I—" the receptionist's eyelids fluttered for a moment before that predictable lovesick smile slid onto her face, and she promptly flopped back into her chair, beaming up at Pam.

"There's two CCTV cameras," Ed announced.

"That's fine," Pam pulled the receptionist back to her desk and leaned against it while she held the girl's hand. "I'm just having a chat with my friend here," she added mildly.

"That's right, Ms Green," the receptionist agreed eagerly.

"What's on Mr Hill's diary this afternoon?" Harley asked, watching the Joker across the room. He was running his tongue over his teeth, eyeballing the door to Hill's office, his shoulders rolling like he was trying to work out a cricK in his neck.

"Mr Hill is taking calls from his advisors and friends this afternoon," the receptionist explained cheerfully. "The election results aren't in yet, but it's looking like a sure thing from the exit polls!"

"Advisors and _friends_ , huh," the Joker caught Harley's eye, a nasty smirk on his lips.

"What perfect timing," she grinned back at him, then looked over her shoulder at Ed. "Keep watch," she ordered. "Don't kill anyone unless you have to."

"Oh, _boo_ ," Ed huffed, settling in to keep an eye on the elevator.

"I want to get a sense of Hill before we use inception," Harley told Pam, who nodded once, her attention on the receptionist. "Give us five minutes," Harley added as she joined the Joker, skipping the last few steps before she reached him.

He was smirking, his eyes glowing wickedly.

"Alright," Harley said slyly, gesturing to the office door. "Let's try it your way."

"Oh, after _you_ ," he growled, putting a little show of allowing her to pass and opening the door for her.

She shot him an amused look over her shoulder before she stepped into Hill's office, her eyes sweeping the room quickly, taking in the opulence and finery before they landed on the man himself.

Hill was reclining in his desk chair, guffawing boorishly on the phone. He'd put on some weight since Harley last saw him, but his mustache was just as grey and bushy, his skin just as tanned and leathery. And of course, on the wall behind him, there was a golden mural depicting the story of King Midas, the greek myth about a man who turned everything he touched into gold.

Harley snorted in disbelief, drawing Hill's attention as the Joker pushed the door shut behind them with a loud _click._

Hill's eyes widened, his guffawing promptly ceasing as his baggy eyes darted between them. He would have remembered Harley from their conversation at his fundraiser and the Riddler attack that followed it. And the Joker… he was simply unmistakable unless he chose to be, even without the warpaint.

"I—you—" Hill started to stammer into the receiver as Harley strode forward with the Joker on her heels.

She leaned across the oversized desk and slapped two fingers down on the phone cradle, ending the call before Hill could say anything incriminating. Then she yanked on the phone chord hard, pulling the receiver out of Hill's hand just as the Joker swooped down and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hauling him out of his desk chair.

"Hey there _, Hammy_ ," he sneered, baring tobacco-stained teeth as Hill struggled and blustered.

"What are you—! I—! What do you think you're— _aghh_!" he cried out when Harley cracked him across the side of his head with the phone receiver, dazing him before the Joker threw him down on the desk so he was flat on his back, his legs flailing off the side.

"We're just here to have a little chat," Harley informed Hill coldly, hopping up on the desk beside his head while the Joker held him down.

"A… a chat?" Hill stuttered, his eyes wide. "Listen, I can get you whatever you want! Whatever you want!"

"We want Roman," Harley scowled.

The Joker pulled a switchblade from his suit jacket, flicking it open with a threatening _Swick!_

"Where is he?" Harley demanded, gritting her teeth as she stopped herself from hitting Hill somewhere people would _notice_.

"I don't know!" he gasped, his eyes on the knife. "I—I have no idea!"

 _"_ _Interesting_ ," the Joker purred, stabbing the tip of the blade into the desk beside Hill's head. "We hear he's like a _son_ to you. You wouldn't be uh, _lyin'_ to us, Hammy, would ya?"

"I'm not lying, I swear!" Hill pleaded, blinking furiously. "I don't know where he lives, where he works. He just calls me when he needs me!"

"And you go _running_ whenever he does, hmm?" the Joker growled, passing the knife to Harley before he pulled Hill up by his lapels and slammed him back down again, hard enough to make the entire desk rattle, making Hill cry out as his head hit the wood.

"Listen, you basically have two options," Harley crossed her legs daintily. "You tell us how to find him, or we kill you." She cocked her head to the side as she looked down at Hill. "What's it gonna be?"

"I swear, I don't know," Hill begged, squeezing his eyes shut. "He used to have a phone I could call, but it's been out of service for days. He calls me from an unknown number. I swear—I _swear,_ I have no idea how to find him!"

"Oh, _Jesus_ ," the Joker grumbled, shooting Harley a pointed look before he pulled Hill up and slammed him back down again, the whole desk quaking while Hill moaned. "Lemme give ya a little…. _advice,_ Hammy."

Harley held the knife up to Hill's eyeball, letting it hover there for a moment before she dragged the tip of the blade down his weathered cheek.

"You may think Roman's the right horse to bet on," the Joker planted his elbow on Hill's chest and leaned in close. "But you'd be _wrong_ about that."

"I, I don't know what you're talking about," Hill panted. "Roman works for me…he... "

"Hill, you _really_ don't want to lie to us again," Harley growled. "We know _all_ about the False Face Society and who you are. You let Roman dress you up in a cloak and a mask when he promised he'd make you the Mayor…"

Hill floundered, breathing hard through his nose as he tried to think of an excuse, still protecting Roman. "I…" he trailed off helplessly.

"You're a _puppet_ ," Harley snapped. "Hell, he even made you morons think it would be a good idea to bring _me_ into the fold. As if _that_ was going to end well for any of you."

"I just—he, he just…"

"He made you very _rich_ ," Harley sneered, holding the knife to his neck, just shy of cutting him. "And you're greedy enough to think that means he can do no wrong."

"You don't _understand,"_ Hill insisted, panting through his nose. "You don't understand what he can be like… he's… he can…"

"Convince you he's the only one to give you what you want," Harley suggested coldly, passing the knife to the Joker.

She pulled back for a moment, a shiver of disgust racing through her as she remembered just how intensely she'd felt that sentiment. That flicker of dark eyelashes, that soft voice, _promising_ her...

"What do you want from me," Hill sobbed, closing his eyes as the Joker took over with the knife, a much more frightening prospect.

"Like, I _said_ , Hammy," the Joker purred, shoving the blade into the corner of Hill's mouth. "You're bettin' on the wrong _horse."_

Hill whined pathetically, his whole body trembling, knocking photographs and papers off the desk.

"Ya know, we're not that different from Black Mask... are we Harl?" the Joker purred, glancing up at Harley.

Harley's eyes widened in surprise, a little taken aback by this admission. She'd thought about it before, that Roman had a _messiah_ quality that drew people into his orbit just like the Joker did…

She just wouldn't have expected J to recognize it, or admit it even if he did.

"Aside from a few _very_ key differences," the Joker added, squinting down at Hill, who was staring at him incredulously. "Ya see, Roman's a paint by numbers kinda _guy_. Everything he does makes _sense._ But Harley and I? _Mm…_ "

The Joker bent down so he was right in Hill's face, the knife still pulling his mouth out to the side. Hill stared back at him in wide-eyed terror.

"Harley and I… _we_ are... _chaos_ ," the Joker growled, his eyes rolling back like he was savoring the word. "You don't see us comin', and you _don't_ know what we'll do. Oh, _sure_ , Roman's _sneaky_ , and he knows what he's doin'. But he had a head start, _Hammy_. And now… now we're catching up…"

The Joker let his words hang in the air for a few long moments, the only sound in the room Hill's ragged, wheezy breathing. Then J pulled back, rolling his head in a circle, making the bones in his neck pop disconcertingly before he looked at Harley, who fought back a stupid grin.

"What do you want me to do?" Hill pleaded weakly.

The office's door opened then, and Pam slipped in with Ed following close behind her.

Harley smirked. "We just want you to be Gotham's Mayor."

"What?" Hill demanded, bewildered, watching the Joker flop down in his desk chair, and examine the switchblade like he'd lost interest. "What—what do you mean?" Hill sputtered.

"That sounds pretty obvious to me," Pam said drolly, leaning against the desk beside Harley so they were flanking Hill's head.

"Ed," Harley shot Ed a loaded look as he lowered himself into one of the armchairs facing Hill's desk. "Go keep watch," she instructed.

"Sorry, mommy," Ed smirked, crossing his legs. "I _really_ wanna see this."

"What—what's happening?" Hill warbled, looking between Harley and Pam frantically, his eyes lingering on Pam as she pulled the emerald pendant out of her blouse and unscrewed it from the gold chain.

"Life is about to get much easier for you, Mr Hill," Pam informed him breezily, dabbing her wrist with the miniature perfume bottle while everyone watched closely, all of them intrigued to see inception in action.

Pam held her wrist under Hill's nose, watching impassively as he twitched away, blinking rapidly until he got a whiff of the perfume. Then he started sniffing like a bloodhound searching out a fox, rubbing his nose against Pam's wrist, his eyes rolling back in his head like he was drunk.

A dreamy, dazed look came over Hill's face, no longer struggling or trembling, no longer fearful or confused. He was relaxed, completely docile, and at ease.

Pam laid her hand on his cheek.

"Hamilton Hill," she said cooly, clearly. "What you think you know, and what you think you believe… those things are about to change..."

* * *

After meeting with Fox, Vicki called in sick to work and went back to her apartment, where she promptly got back in bed and fell asleep, fully clothed. When she woke up it was dark outside, and she was starving and dehydrated. She had five missed calls and multiple worried texts from Bruce, but just one message from Harley in response to Vicki's many texts letting her know how it had gone with Fox.

_Nice._

_Nice_? That was _all_ she had to say?

Vicki tried calling Harley, but the phone just kept ringing and ringing, no answer.

She took a shower, accidentally conditioning her hair twice because she was so distracted. Knox weighed more heavily on her conscience, that wonderful numbness Harley inspired in her slowly wearing away as she accepted that by leading Knox to that alley, even unintentionally, she had sealed his fate.

Vicki needed Harley to take the guilt away again. She needed Harley to tell her what to _do_.

The only thing that could fix it, to make Vicki feel like she'd done something _good,_ was to knock Roman Sionis off his pedestal. The story Harley told her in the alley about his girlfriend had been running through her head with increasing frequency. Maybe because it was easier to be horrified about a woman having her free will taken away via torture than to think about Knox gurgling on the ground with his throat cut.

Vicki tried calling Harley over and over again, pacing around her small apartment and growing more distraught that she might not be able to reach her.

On the verge of a panic attack and desperately in need of a cigarette, Vicki pulled on sneakers and a hoodie and headed for the bodega down the street. The fresh air helped clear her head, making it a fraction easier to reassure herself that Harley was not ignoring her, that Vicki needed to trust that Harley was just busy and would get back to her when she could.

The bodega owner shot her a concerned look as she paid for a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, but Vicki was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice. Most of her attention was on the burner phone tucked in her back pocket, willing it to ring.

She stepped out of the store, pulling the wrapping off the Luckies with shaking hands, then shoved a cigarette between her lips and fought with the lighter until it finally sparked to life. The first hit of nicotine was like a soothing wave crashing over her, and she closed her eyes as she exhaled a cloud of smoke, reassuring herself again that Harley would call.

Heading back to her apartment, she forced herself to focus on Sionis and what she could do to take him down with or without Harley's help. If there was a way she could check in with Fox to make sure he was taking action… Maybe plant a story in the paper using herself as an anonymous source. Or tweet about it. It wasn't ethical, but Vicki's journalistic integrity was the last thing on her mind now.

Only a block away from her apartment, she passed a dark alley, the lamp post that usually lit the street there extinguished. Wrapped up in her thoughts, she hardly noticed it was out.

Then a hand curled around Vicki's arm, yanking her into the alley and making her shriek as she dropped her cigarette.

She was slammed up against the alley wall, her breath hitching as a gloved hand closed over her mouth and shoved her head back against the bricks. Not hard enough to hurt her, but more than enough to make her heart start thundering wildly, her legs turning to jelly.

And then a masked face appeared in her line of sight.

Black Canary.

Vicki whimpered, too shocked to form a coherent thought as Black Canary's grip on her arm tightened, and she leaned in close.

"Where is Harley Quinn?" she demanded in a low hiss, her hand shifting from Vicki's mouth to her jaw, holding her head in place. " _Where is she!"_ she barked, her voice rising into something more girlish.

"I—I—I don't know," Vicki panted weakly.

"You've been working with her," the Canary insisted. "You know what she's planning. Now, _where is she!_ "

She squeezed Vicki's jaw and held her head against the wall, and Vicki could only stare back at her wide-eyed, too stunned to reply.

The moonlight was just bright enough for Vicki to see Black Canary clearly. She wore a cowl that covered most of her face, only a small mouth and a pointed chin visible. Her eyes were ringed with black beneath the cowl, the whites standing out starkly. But even in the darkness, Vicki was close enough to see her eyes were a tawny brown fringed with short lashes.

Vicki's breath caught, her eyes widening incredulously, her heart leaping in her throat.

"Dinah?" she whispered.

* * *

**A/N: This is where you might insert the Parks & Rec Chris Pratt making a shocked face gif. **

**Ooooh, Dinah… you in trouble nowwwww.**

**Something we see a lot in this series is people getting away with unbelievably flimsy disguises. It's Batman's fault. Bruce is super famous. People should realize who he is, even with the cowl on. Harley doesn't recognize Ed or Roman when they have their masks/paint on, and NO ONE recognizes Harley & J when they're out prancing around in broad daylight. No one but Vicki… **

**PAM. I'm so much happier with Pam. I can't even tell you. I would love to hear your thoughts on Pam. That little line she delivers to Hill at the end of the scene in his office actually gives me chills, but I wrote it so, ya know. Perhaps that's just me.**

**I had to delete so much dialogue of Ed being all "OMG THE SQUAD IS HAPPENING" Because it was too ridiculous. At one point, he was** **_'looking around furtively, his eyes wide with delight. "It's happening!" He squealed. "It's happening!"_ ** **' You bet your ass Ed loves a meme. That's from the director's cut, lol.**

**There's some amazing Ed & Harley fan art on my Tumblr, FYI. [Have a look](https://knit-wear-it.tumblr.com/post/634782305366474752/i-dont-even-know-how-to-caption-this-im-just)  
**

_**Next: With more cards up her sleeve, events forthcoming begin to play out for Harley.** _

**Please comment and review!**

**xo**


	20. Chapter 20

_Theme: The Comet Is Coming - 'Summon the Fire' ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/G55GspnNkBo)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/5c44MldQ2CvroamP73V1lp?si=hgCfBqpgSsmcqzwdk4sYSw))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

20.

* * *

Bruce sighed as he gazed down at Gotham, the penthouse's balcony affording him a view of most of the city. He ran a hand through his hair, watching the car headlights bob along the street below as he tried to decide if it was too soon to text Vicki again. He hadn't been able to reach her all day, and the longer he sat with Dinah's suspicions about Vicki and Harley, the more worried for Vicki he became.

He was also starting to regret not putting a tracker on her phone. After that day at the Lake Restaurant, he'd considered it when she'd aggressively questioned him without an explanation. It had seemed a little heavy-handed to keep tabs on her at the time, but now…

The terrace doors suddenly flew open, and Dinah stomped out wearing her Black Canary armor. Her cowl was in her hand, her blonde hair plastered to the side of her face with sweat. She looked frantic in a way Bruce had never seen her before, making his eyes widen in alarm.

"I messed up," she gasped, her eyes wide, distraught. "I messed up, Bruce."

* * *

Hill was not, as Harley had suspected, a wealth of information. Harley suspected he was especially out of the loop compared to the other False Face Society members because, despite his business acumen and successes, he was a fucking moron. The perfect political puppet for Roman to stand behind.

According to Hill, Roman even suggested they had a shot at the presidency one day, and Harley didn't doubt for a second that that had been a serious promise.

But thanks to Pam, Hill was now just as dedicated to bringing Roman down as they were. She'd planted that idea deep in Hill's subconscious, and even though he'd been terrified by their presence in his office, he'd been all too enthusiastic about helping them find the chinks in Roman's armor. He'd also managed to deliver one very key thing—easy access to John Daggett.

With one more victory in the bag, Harley, J, and Ed headed east to meet Alexandra and her thugs while Pam returned to Lee's to sleep off her jetlag. That made Harley happy — Pam was powerful, but she was useless in a fight, and things were likely about to get dicey and _violent_.

They made a quick stop to rob a party supply shop for greasepaint and a plastic bowler hat Ed insisted he couldn't live without, then hopped on the freeway toward the Bowery, one of the Eastside's more abandoned neighborhoods where Alexandra held court.

Once parked down the street from the Odessa hideout, Harley and the Joker applied their warpaint while Ed fussed over getting the rectangle of black paint around his eyes and nose perfectly straight.

"I have an _aesthetic_ , Harley," he informed her briskly when she snapped at him to stop wasting time. "Sloppy and chaotic may be a time-saver for you, but it isn't _my_ look."

Truth be told, Ed was far less irritating while they were working, and Harley had come to believe his whiny little schtick was an intentional distraction from what he was really capable of.

She just wasn't sure it was a conscious choice on his part.

The old Bowery station had been closed for decades, its many entrances boarded up or closed off. It didn't feel like a hideout so much as a fortress befitting a queen, with numerous thugs dressed in black bloc armed with automatic rifles guarding the building like sentries.

After allowing themselves to be patted down, Harley, the Joker, and Ed were allowed inside, which remained unchanged from the last time Harley had been there. Loud music fought to be heard over dogs barking as Alexandra's minions led them through the swell of anarchists, punks, and muscle waiting for work.

There was a platform outfitted with a few dilapidated sofas and armchairs at one end of the massive room; Alexandra was waiting for them there, her muscled arms folded high over her chest, a sour look on her face.

On the ground below her, a group of thugs had crowded around a crate of weapons. Frost was with them, somehow managing to blend in and stand out at the same time, almost like he'd positioned himself as a point of authority in their ranks despite working for the Joker. Plenty more thugs were hovering on the peripheral, some of them looking eager to join in.

Alexandra's lieutenants were positioned on the couches behind her: Sweetie, the black girl with a shaved head who was always at her side. Molly Sullivan, the matronly new leader of the Irish mob. And Sergey the Russian, a scruffy tobacco-stained arms dealer who used to work for Harley.

When Harley saw Sergey beside Alexandra, she had to fight back a grin, thrilled that he hadn't betrayed her or been killed.

"Fifteen men to attack our new mayor's party," Alexandra greeted them sourly, stomping to the edge of the platform so she was looming over their small group. "Do not kill these, or we will have problems," she added bitterly.

"We've uh, had a change of _plan_ ," the Joker informed her, playing coy.

Alexandra scowled. "What change?"

"Hill flipped," Harley announced cheerfully.

"And you _believe_ him?" Alexandra demanded.

"You flipped," Ed pointed out. "And we didn't even threaten to _kill_ you."

"I am nothing like Hill or Sionis," Alexandra spat. "You said it yourself; Hill believes Black Mask is the only one who can get him what he wants."

"Have you _met_ Harley Quinn?" Ed butted in before Harley could speak for herself. "Do you _know_ how sneaky this former behavioral psychologist is? And _lord_ almighty, look at that _face_. She could convince a tiger to change its stripes."

Harley shot Ed a dirty look, feeling mocked, but Alexandra seemed to take him seriously, eyeing Harley cautiously.

"And um, _hello_ , have we all forgotten about Harvey Dent?" Ed jerked his thumb at the Joker. "One minute he's Gotham's white knight, then he has a little chat with Mr J here, and _poof_ he's a serial killer?"

Alexandra's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and eventually, she looked over her shoulder at Sweetie, who nodded her approval.

"Fine," Alexandra snapped, swinging back around. "What do you need from me?"

The Joker swayed forward a few steps while Alexandra watched through narrowed eyes. He squinted back at her, then abruptly, and very ungracefully, hopped up on her queenly platform, raking his hair off his face as he straightened up to his full height like a preening peacock.

Harley glanced at Ed, who wasn't bothering to hide a delighted grin. He caught Harley's eye and wiggled his shoulders like he was unbearably excited.

Harley had to fight back a grin of her own.

Stupid Ed.

Alexandra narrowed her eyes when the Joker drew closer to her, folding his hands behind his back like he was speaking to a child.

"Well, uh, Eddie and I are gonna have a chat with Daggett. Ya know, straighten this whole," he waved his hand mildly. " _Anarky_ business out."

"A chat," Alexandra sneered. "What does a _chat_ mean to a terrorist clown like you."

"Oh, _who_ can _say_ ," the Joker sing-songed evasively, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "Some things just can't be planned, know what I mean?"

"So, you _don't_ need my men?" Alexandra scowled, looking annoyed. "You've been wasting my time."

"Actually," Harley piped up. "I was thinking you and I could pay Miss Lucy a visit." She smirked when she saw the surprise on Alexandra's perpetually steely face. "I don't know about you," Harley continued slyly. "But in my book, it's been a long time coming."

* * *

Ed was _so_ happy.

It was coming up to midnight when he and the Joker parked the still-bloodied Mercedes sedan near the old shipyard beside the ferry terminals. They'd parted with Harley and Alexandra, who were having a girls' mission of their own while Ed and the Joker dealt with Daggett.

"You know, I heard about a place called the _murder_ dock where Falcone used to kill people," Ed grinned at J. "I wonder if it's around here?"

But the Joker just ignored him, lighting a cigarette and cracking his window to exhale a plume of smoke out into the warm night.

That had pretty much been the theme of the day, J ignoring Ed and Pam—or _Ivy_ as Ed liked to call her. Ed could understand; J wasn't really a teaming up kind of guy, and it was only the practicality of a dire situation that stood between their working together and him killing Ed, probably in quite a sexy and messy way. But ever since Pam arrived, J had been radiating an almost _violent_ resentment toward her, _finally_ giving Ed a leg up on the pecking order. Now he wasn't the most hated person in the Joker's book, not by a long shot.

It was kind of cute watching him get all snarly at Pam. Ed could see it wasn't quite _jealousy_ that sparked all that vitriol — it felt a lot more like _suspicion._

Once Harley and Pam disappeared into Lee's back bedroom for some girl talk, the Joker grabbed Ed's arm hard enough to make him yelp—hard enough to leave _bruises_ —and growled a few words of advice: " _Don't_ let her _touch_ you."

"Why?" Ed gasped, enthralled even though J was about to break his arm.

"Trust me, _pal_ ," the Joker sneered. "You don't wanna be one of her _weeds_."

Ed was then haltingly given _some_ information while they stood in Lee's kitchen waiting for the girls. That information included that yes, Harley's friend Pam was the Poison Ivy the Chinese gangs still whispered about. And if she touched you, she could control you, which was how she and Harley took over the mob a year or so earlier with Sofia Falcone. Ed had been expecting some kind of ethereal glowing goddess, maybe with green skin or vines for arms or something wild like that, but Pam just gave off a nerdy-in-a-hot-way hippie vibe which was kind of a letdown, as so many things were.

Right up until Ed saw her in action in Hill's office.

Hooooooooo boy.

No _wonder_ J didn't like having her around.

"So," Ed said slyly. "Do you think Pam ever used her powers on Harley?"

The Joker raked a hand through his hair, which he'd stained green with a washout spray-dye from the party store.

"Yep," he eventually growled, looking sour.

" _Jeez_ ," Ed tisked disapprovingly, thrilled that he'd finally gotten the Joker to talk. "And Harley's still friends with her after _that_?"

" _Yep_ ," the Joker growled again. Then he turned to look at Ed, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, making Ed's heart leap with excitement. "Red did it the _first_ night they met."

 _"Woah,"_ Ed widened his eyes as incredulously as possible. "Wait… you don't think she's been controlling Harley this whole time, do you?" he gasped, projecting the most _intense_ kind of pearl-clutching he was capable of.

J hummed unhappily and prodded the scar splitting his bottom lip, again staring at the lamp post in front of the car.

Ed had no idea what was going through his mind, but _god_ , was it fun to look at that painted face in repose.

"She's gotta be touching them," J muttered at length, his eyes narrowing. "Otherwise, things get… _messy_."

"Messy how?" Ed asked eagerly. "Is that what you meant about going off the deep end? Like she goes crazy if she isn't touching them?"

This time the Joker just shrugged evasively, and Ed knew he wasn't going to get an answer, but only because J didn't plan on giving away free information about the limits of Poison Ivy's powers. That didn't mean there weren't _other_ answers to be found.

"Has she ever used it on you?" Ed pressed, undeterred, and the Joker chuckled drily, shooting Ed a sidelong look.

"It doesn't _work_ on me, Eddie," he smirked. "Red tried once."

"Really?" Ed's eyes narrowed—that was a pretty key piece of information he'd just given up. "What was it like?"

The Joker released a low, thoughtful growl that sent a wonderful shiver racing up Ed's spine.

"Like havin' your _brain_ whipped up in a blender," he said, his head flopping toward Ed. "And sucked out through your _ears_."

"Wow," Ed drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Is it weird that I kinda want her to do it to me?"

The Joker snorted, amused, and slumped down in his seat, not saying anything.

"You don't trust her, do you?" Ed asked cautiously.

"Oh _, Eddie_ ," J purred, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window. "You can't trust _anyone_."

Ed sighed, wondering how this little drama would play out for them. Would the Joker kill Pam? Would Pam kill the Joker? Would one of them get Harley killed first, just as they both feared?

Or would they all live happily ever after?

"So," the Joker continued, sounding kind of _sneaky._ "Whaddya gonna do about good ol' Dr _Thompkins_ once this is all over?"

"What do you mean?" Ed frowned.

"She knows an awful lot about you," the Joker observed coyly.

It had occurred to Ed that Lee would make a _fantastic_ gangster moll for him. Not that he qualified as a gangster—the gangsters he had brushed up against were heartbreakingly _dull_. But if a life of crime and media attention was on the cards for Ed, he would need to put some protective measures in place like Harley and the Joker—safe houses, henchmen, loyal minions, resources.

He hadn't asked Lee how she felt about it yet, but obviously she would say yes.

"And you _never_ know when she may turn on you," the Joker continued.

"Lee is my _friend_ ," Ed shot back haughtily. "We were there for each other. We _bonded_."

"I _know_ , I _know_ , she was a real trooper," the Joker drawled in a deceptively light purr. He shot Ed another loaded look. "But Eddie… what if someone used her _against_ you."

Ed's eyes narrowed to an annoyed squint.

One day, his truce with Harley and J would be over, and the squad would break up. Ed didn't know where that would leave them… though he _did_ like the idea of having a few frenemies to tango with on occasion. But not ones who threatened _his_ Lee.

"Well," Ed said tartly, with a mind to the future. "I imagine Harley would be _super_ pissed if Poison Ivy's real name leaked to the media." He caught the Joker's eye and saw he was listening with one eyebrow raised. "You might even say that _tasty_ little secret would stop a person using or hurting Lee."

The Joker looked out the windscreen for a moment, then made a thoughtful _purring_ sound that was both sexy and terrifying, but maybe also: _impressed_.

He rolled his head toward Ed again, meeting his eye.

"Deal," he agreed, flashing him a smirk.

Ed's heart fluttered happily, but before he could comment on the nature of frenemies, a black Jaguar rolled into the shipyard behind them, drawing the Joker's attention over his shoulder.

"Showtime," he growled, running his tongue over his teeth.

The Jag slowed to a stop, pulling up right next to Ed's window, prompting him to pull his new Smith and Wesson from the holster under his suit jacket—Day Two Givenchy, still better than Kirkland Brand—and check the clip.

"You aren't gonna ask about the uh… _plan_?" the Joker asked wryly, watching Ed hold down the button to open his window.

"I prefer to improvise," Ed countered breezily, waiting for the glass pane to roll all the way down before he shot out the Jag's passenger window, then killed the driver with a second bullet.

The Joker _wheezed_. His face crumpled and his head flew back against the seat, an ungodly howl ripping out of his throat, making Ed's ears ring.

"Oh, _Eddie_ ," J snickered, kicking his door open. "I _needed_ that."

He hopped out of the car and loped around the hood toward Daggett's car, and by the time Ed caught up with him, J had dragged Daggett out of the Jag and slammed him up against the side of the car, holding him there easily.

"Get off me, you animal!" Daggett seethed, craning his head away.

There was little illumination on the dock aside from an old lamp post a few yards away, but even in the darkness, Ed could see Daggett wasn't as scared as he should have been. Pride and arrogance were propping him up, even in the face of Gotham's most terrifying clown-terrorist.

Daggett looked between their painted faces, equal parts enraged and bemused before he huffed disdainfully.

"Where the hell is Reeves?" he snapped.

"Ooh," Ed grinned. "So, _that's_ who Hill told you you were meeting."

"What are you talking about?" Daggett spat.

"Our new _Mayor_ realized he wasn't playin' for the winning _team_ ," the Joker explained slyly, adjusting his grip on Daggett's shirt. "Seems _he's_ got a better sense of self-preservation than _you_ do… _John_."

Something about the Joker _growling_ Daggett's first name made him recoil, his nostrils flaring.

"What do you want?" he hissed, his face darkening.

"Ohhh, I want _lots_ of things," the Joker purred. "But let's start with an easy one, hmm?" he leaned in close, making Daggett rear back. "Where's Roman keeping _Anarky_?"

Daggett's mouth puckered and his eyes darted between them again, visibly unnerved that they knew Roman's name.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.

"Oh, _sure_ ya do," Ed flapped his hand at Daggett playfully. "I mean, _you're_ the one who's been shipping those poppies in for Black Mask!"

"Mm, you raise a good point, Eddie," the Joker narrowed his eyes. "Maybe _John_ here can tell us how Roman found those poppies in the _first_ place…"

"I'm not telling you anything," Daggett seethed. " _Freak_."

Ed threw a hand over his heart, gasping. "Rude!"

But the Joker just released a rattly chuckle, his tongue slipping out to swipe over his scarred bottom lip. Then, moving so fast Ed almost missed it, a jackknife slipped out of his sleeve, and with little more than a flick of his wrist, he slashed Daggett's face, making the older man yelp and lurch away.

He didn't get very far. The Joker caught him by the shirt and slammed him back up against the side of the Jag.

"Oooh, _daddy_!" Ed whooped, prompting the Joker to shoot him a quick, amused look.

Daggett was breathing hard through his nose, his eyes wide, _perturbed_. There was a shallow gash stretching from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone, a few scarlet drops of blood rolling down his cheek.

"Now," J continued, his voice lower, decidedly _less_ amused. He crowded Daggett up against the car. " _You_ were telling us where the BO comes from… _hmm_?"

Daggett ground his teeth, his eyes on the knife twirling between the Joker's fingers before he finally relented.

"There's a man named Strange," Daggett admitted, sounding strained. "A psychiatrist we hired to our R&D department. We brought the poppies in for him and financed his research. In exchange, he made Roman a product."

"Mmm… Black _Mask_ musta promised you something _good_ for all that trouble, huh?" the Joker prodded Daggett's cut cheek with a sharp, paint-smeared finger, making him wince. "Guy like you with all your _money…_ it _had_ to be worth the risk. It had to be something you wanted _bad_."

"Ya know, J, I heard a _rumor_ ," Ed butted in flirtatiously.

"What's that, Eddie?" the Joker purred, smooth as anything.

"I heard Mr Daggett's just _dying_ to get his hands on Wayne Enterprises," Ed gushed, his smirk growing when Daggett turned to stare at him, shocked and _super_ pissed off.

"Wayne Enterprises, huh," the Joker patted Daggett's face to get his attention. "Now that _does_ sound like a lotta money."

Daggett glared at the Joker, his teeth grinding together as he came to the very accurate conclusion that they knew more than he thought, and he was going to need to play ball.

"It was a calculated risk," he insisted resentfully. "And Roman always delivers."

"Mmm," the Joker growled, low in his chest, all _rattly_. "Not this time, pal."

Ed whooped again when J wrenched Daggett away from the car and tossed him to the ground. He landed gracelessly on his belly and scrambled to push himself up, his graying hair flopping forward over his eyes as he sat back on his heels and glared up at them.

Ed pulled the Smith and Wesson from its holster and took aim at Daggett's head, and the Joker dropped into a sumo squat in front of him.

"Where's he keeping _Anarky_ ," J asked quietly, intent. "Hmm?"

"I—" Daggett faltered, his gaze swinging between the long barrel of Ed's gun and the Joker's painted face, _calculating_ the risk. "I don't know," he admitted. "That wasn't something I needed or wanted to know about."

"Now _that's_ not very helpful," the Joker cocked his head to the side like a curious cat. "Is it, Eddie?"

"Nope," Ed smirked, pulling back the Smith and Wesson's hammer with a threatening click. "I think we should probably kill him, J."

 _"Look,"_ Daggett insisted, getting desperate. "All I know is _you_ managed to hack Wayne during the Thanksgiving Riots. Roman believed you had someone valuable working for you, someone who could solve our problem with Wayne. He called them Anarky. I don't know anything else about it."

"Oh, _dear_ ," the Joker tisked. "I think he's tellin' the truth." He hummed throatily. "He doesn't know _anything_."

The word hung between the three of them like a threat, a last chance for Daggett to come up with something worthwhile.

"I can get you money," Daggett started cautiously, trying a different tact. "I can get you a _lot_ of money if you'll disappear…"

Ed's ears perked up at that, but before he could ask how _much_ money, the Joker was speaking for both of them.

"It's always about the _money_ to you people," he purred, leaning in close while Daggett tried to cower away. "But ya see, for me and my buddy _Eddie_ here, it's not about the _cash_..."

Daggett yelped when J slashed the other side of his face, creating another shallow cut from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone to mirror the other, the impression of a Chelsea smile.

"It's about sending a _message_ ," the Joker continued in a sinister sing-song, tapping Daggett on the nose with the blade.

Ed felt downright _giddy_ as he watched the Joker work. The _message—_ the Joker's ultimate weapon, even more so than his hacker or his minions or even Harley Quinn. His message was what made him dangerous, what made the entire city fall to its _knees_ in front of him, _repeatedly_. It was what made him the biggest _bad_ in Gotham.

Not just rhyming words and coy calling cards, but a _purpose_.

"I'll give you Roman," Daggett spat. "Just let me go."

"Oh, _yeah?"_ the Joker snickered. "You're just gonna _hand_ him over?"

"The Tobacconist's Club, you can find him there," Dagget insisted, starting to sound nervous. "Or—"

Ed impulsively pulled the trigger, putting a bullet in Daggett's brain and nearly taking off the Joker's ear in the process.

He half expected J to jump up and get in his face, scream at him, or even murder him. Instead, the Joker simply looked over his shoulder at Ed, his eyebrows raising as he prodded his ear, which must have been ringing after having a bullet pass so close to his head.

"He was gonna make it too easy," Ed explained weakly, watching the Joker rise to his feet. At his full height, Ed still had a few inches on him, but for some reason, the Joker always felt so much _bigger._ "Maybe we shouldn't tell Harley," Ed added, cringing.

"Mm," J seemed to agree, nodding mildly as he squinted down at Daggett's body. Then he shot Ed a sidelong look and slapped him hard on the back.

That slap would have knocked a weaker person over, but Ed stayed firmly on his feet.

"Easy is _boring_ ," the Joker agreed, one butchered corner of his mouth twitching up like he was pleased.

He loped back around to the car while Ed ducked down to steal Daggett's wallet.

There was a black AMEX inside that wouldn't be canceled for at least a day, making Ed squeal happily.

Ooh, _Daddy_. What a night.

* * *

Crouched in the back of an electrical van surrounded by anarchists wearing black bloc and punk kids with brightly-colored mohawks, Harley stuck out like a sore thumb. She was still wearing the bubblegum-pink dress and slouchy white boots, which Alexandra felt entitled to sneer at as they crossed the Uptown bridge onto Gotham's main island.

"This is how you dress to fight?" she scoffed.

"That sounds like something someone who doesn't like a good fight would say," Harley replied breezily, checking the magazine on the new modified automatic Sergey outfitted her with.

He'd handed it to her back at Alexandra's hideout, offering Harley a sly smile and quiet greeting: "You're still alive, Harlequin-lady. Good news."

Oh, Harley _was_ feeling good. The Joker texted her about his and Ed's discussion with the now-late John Daggett. He may not have had anything especially helpful to add, but Harley could still enjoy knowing Roman had lost one of his favorite supporters.

It was just past 3 AM when the van full of armed punks and anarchists arrived at the Iceberg Lounge. As per usual, there was a line of fashionable young people looping around the block, a handful of handsome bouncers hovering near the front and back entrances. They wouldn't be a problem. Harley was more concerned about Alexandra, a remarkable spoiled sport considering her gangster pedigree and the fact that she ran the entire Eastside of Gotham with an iron fist.

"Ground rules," Alexandra announced as the van rumbled up the narrow street the club sat on, slowing as they approached the alley where the back entrance was located.

"Rules?" Harley scoffed, making a few of Alexandra's punks chuckle.

"Do not kill unless you have to," Alexandra snapped, glaring at Harley, who made a _'who me?'_ face. "We are not _terrorists_ ," Alexandra insisted. "We are here for those piece-of-shit fascist Falcones, not to take innocent lives."

"And what about the bouncers?" Harley asked, raising an eyebrow. "They're armed with pistols. What do the rules say about them?"

"Do what you must," Alexandra sneered, her gray eyes narrowing as she held up a baseball bat riddled with rusty nails. "We go in through the old kitchens," she continued, looking around at her minions, who were armed with a litany of weapons; bats, wrenches, tire irons, knives, brass knuckles. They seemed a _lot_ more fun than their boss. "We grab the Falcones, and we leave."

"Sounds pretty boring," Harley observed blithely, looking around at the young people packed into the back of the van, catching a few eyes. "I thought you were supposed to be anarchists, huh? Where's the fun in playing it safe?" She threw her hands up. "Come on, guys, let's show these aristocratic Uptown _fuckers_ what life on the Eastside is really like!"

There was a rumble of agreement, and Alexandra ground her teeth unhappily, looking at her right-hand woman, Sweetie.

"Take four and block the backdoor," she instructed. "We will meet you there."

Sweetie nodded and pushed the van's sliding door open, a handful of thugs following her out into the alley.

"Great," Harley smirked, prompting Alexandra to scowl as the van pulled forward to stop beside the main entrance, where four bouncers were checking names on the guest list. "Let's get this party started," Harley added cheerfully.

"You have a strange idea of a party," Alexandra observed gloomily.

"You've never been to one of my parties," Harley pointed out, pulling the modified automatic from her holster, which looked _very_ strange contrasting with the bright pink dress.

Alexandra rolled her eyes and barked something at her goons, who were getting visibly excited. Harley could feel some of them staring at her, curious and intrigued, and probably more inclined toward her version of anarchy and violence than Alexandra's.

Because Harley's was _much_ more fun.

She yanked the sliding door open, revealing herself to the Iceberg Lounge bouncers and clientele. With her black warpaint already smeared down her white cheeks and the modified automatic in her hand, the screaming started immediately.

_"Run! It's Harley Quinn!"_

Harley snorted and raised her weapon, mowing down all four bouncers and a few clubbers on accident.

Pandemonium broke out on the street as Harley jumped out of the van with Alexandra's anarchists on her heels. People started screaming and running for their lives as the Odessa thugs rushed into the club, wielding their blunt-force weapons and roaring enthusiastically.

"Let's _party_ ," Alexandra growled, making Harley laugh as she jogged after her into the Iceberg Lounge.

The cloakroom attendant was slumped over their desk with a baseball bat like Alexandra's nailed to the side of her head. Harley was instantly drawn to it, holstering her automatic before she pried the bat off the attendant's skull. She gave it an experimental spin and took off after Alexandra, feeling a rush of adrenaline that was so damn _satisfying._

That sensation of floating swept over her when she darted through the prohibition era door and found herself in a scene of mass panic. The club was as packed as it usually was, though now there were punks and anarchists swinging bats and tire irons at the dancers' heads, forcing them to run for cover behind the bar or otherwise try to force their way out through the front door.

Harley instantly joined the fray, swinging the nail-ridden bat at anyone and anything that got in her path, forcing her way through the crowd toward the birdcage. She caught up with Alexandra, whose face was tense, her steely eyes sweeping the room as her people gave into their healthy desires for deep, _primal_ violence.

There were a few _Pop!… Pop!… Pop!… Pop!s_ From the birdcage as Victor attempted to fend them off, unable to escape out the back door with Sweetie blocking the exit. Harley could see Victor from where she stood in the rolling crowd of terrified people, his bald head standing out white against the pink cheetah print and glitter.

Harley pulled her automatic and squinted out of one eye as she aimed, holding down the trigger to eventually hit Victor. She emptied the magazine, accidentally killing a few clubbers in the process, but only managed to hit Victor's right arm. He dropped one of his guns, but he didn't pause or show any sign that he was in pain, his injured arm hanging limply by his side as he continued picking off Alexandra's thugs with his left hand.

Out of ammunition, Harley scowled and holstered her piece.

At least the Joker wasn't there to taunt her about her godawful marksmanship.

"What happened to let's party!" she shouted at Alexandra, who turned to squint at her.

For a split second, Harley thought she saw something like a smile on Alexandra's lips, but it was gone just as quickly. She nodded and started swinging her bat mercilessly, forcing her way across the dance floor regardless of the bullets flying toward them.

Clearing a path for themselves, Harley and Alexandra fought their way up the birdcage, beating the screaming Iceberg Lounge clientele aside. Then Alexandra rushed forward with a mighty roar, swinging her bat at Victor and knocking the Glock out of his hand. She dropped her bat, and Harley watched in awe as Alexandra slammed both her fists against the sides of Victor's bald head with such force that he immediately collapsed to the floor.

Harley grabbed one of Victor's abandoned guns and dodged into the birdcage, finding Lucy and Mario cowering behind one of the pink chaise lounges. Harley kicked the couch aside and pointed Victor's gun at Mario's head.

"What the fuck are you doin'!" Lucy yelped, her green eyes wide. "Ya crazy clown cunt!"

"Where's Alberto?" Harley demanded, grabbing Mario by the front of his shirt and pressing Victor's gun to his forehead.

"Get that gun outta his face!" Lucy screamed, her face red and blotchy, while Mario blubbered helplessly.

Harley realized they weren't going to get any answers there and then, and besides that, the cops would be on their way any moment. She glanced over her shoulder at Alexandra, whose eyes were darting around suspiciously.

"We must go," she announced grimly, squatting down to haul Victor over her shoulder, grunting with the effort.

Harley cracked Mario across the side of the head with Victor's gun, knocking him out so a pair of anarchists could lug him out through the kitchens. Then she turned to Lucy, who had herself pressed up against one of the shiny gold columns of her stupid fucking birdcage.

"Get away from me!" she squawked, kicking out with her heel and missing Harley completely.

Harley didn't even bother to point the gun at Lucy, who was possibly the least physically threatening person she had ever encountered. Instead, she grabbed Lucy's elbow and yanked her to her feet.

"Time to go, Lucy," Harley snapped. "We need to have another _girl_ talk."

Lucy tried to wrench away, screaming indignantly and generally being uncooperative. Exasperated, Harley grabbed a handful of Lucy's long dark hair and spun her around, slamming her face-first into a golden column, which was solid steel beneath the paint. Lucy slumped into Harley's arms, unconscious, her button nose gushing blood.

Harley looped one of Lucy's arms over her shoulders while Sweetie did the same with her other, and together they dragged her into the kitchens.

"I love teamwork," Harley grinned at Sweetie as they hauled Lucy out into the alley.

* * *

The sun was coming up, and Vicki was sitting stiffly in the corner of her squashy pink corduroy couch, staring numbly at the door across from her. She was waiting for someone to come crashing through that door. Maybe Harley with an ice pick, furious over something Vicki couldn't predict, finally ready to kill her. Maybe the other version of Harley, desperate for Vicki's help and compassion. Maybe it would be the police, having learned that Vicki conspired with known terrorists.

Or maybe, it would be the Batman.

Though whether he'd be there to save Vicki or drag her away in handcuffs was anyone's guess.

For almost twelve hours, Vicki had been sitting there, trying to decide what to do. She had a phone in each hand, her iPhone, which had numerous missed calls and concerned texts from Bruce, and the old Nokia she used for communicating with Harley Quinn. According to the news, Harley had her hands full shooting up nightclubs at the moment, no doubt for some bigger purpose that no one would understand until it was too late.

But if there was anything that would get Harley's attention, Black Canary's real identity was sure to do it.

There was no getting around that if Vicki outed Dinah, she was firmly siding with Harley. There had been just enough ambiguity to hide behind so far, ambiguity to justify Vicki's actions. But not this time. Especially not when Vicki was forced to confront the bewildering reality that if Dinah was Black Canary, there was a very… _very_ strong possibility that Bruce was…

It made a laughable amount of sense with hindsight. Bruce was a man with secrets, a man with a tragic past who hid who he really was behind a facade of smug elitism. He had the financial resources, the physicality, the gravitas, a sense of morality that rose above what was strictly legal. And Dinah, his butler's ' _niece'_ with a backstory that would have fallen apart with the lightest of prodding… she wasn't his ward or a charity case. She was his _protegee._

Bruce Wayne was the Batman, and Vicki had foolishly believed _she_ was the one who needed to protect _him_ from Black Mask.

"Fuck," she whispered, throwing the Nokia aside in favor of the iPhone.

She tapped out a quick email to the Globe's HR department to let them know she would be off sick again. The idea of going out in public with this weighing on her seemed impossible. Waiting for someone to come punish her felt far more reasonable.

The iPhone beeped with a text message—another one from Bruce.

_Let me know when you're ready to talk._

Vicki pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down hard as she squeezed her eyes shut. By now, Bruce would know that Vicki suspected who he really was. If Black Canary… if _Dinah_ knew Vicki was working with Harley, then Bruce would too, an idea that made her heart ache with shame, building exponentially on her guilt over Knox's murder, and the knowledge that there was nothing rational about wanting Harley Quinn to be the one to protect her from whatever was coming next.

Of that, Vicki was sure. Something _was_ coming next.

Then the burner phone beeped—a message from Harley that made Vicki want to _scream._

_Act normally. I'll be in touch._

Vicki set both phones aside and rubbed her hand over her face. Her world had been turned upside down, but one thing was incontrovertibly clear. Choosing between Bruce and Harley was not going to help her out of this mess.

She could only rely on herself now.

* * *

The Hulu Meats Warehouse was an ideal meeting spot, a creepy, big old building that had been cleared out in anticipation of demolition so the Crowne Group could develop the land with more high rises and 'luxury' condos. But then Bertie Crowne got thrown off the top of his own skyscraper after the Joker revealed his dealings with the mob. Since then, no real estate developer had come anywhere near Gotham's meatpacking district, which made it the perfect part of town to lay low in Harley's estimation.

After some diversionary driving to shake off the cops, they'd regrouped at the warehouse, Harley sprightly and excited for what was to come, Alexandra tense and impatient to get it over with.

"You need to relax," Harley advised, tapping out a message to Vicki, who was lying low at her apartment by the sounds of it.

Harley was tempted to check on her, but her instincts—which she was beginning to trust again—told her Vicki would not be a problem. She couldn't go to the police, even if Harley had killed her colleague in front of her, and she had enough skin in the game to keep her mouth shut.

Vicki played her part well, just as Harley knew she would.

"Relax," Alexandra sneered, waving off the flask offered to her by a thug with a set of neon green dreadlocks.

"Yeah, _relax_ ," Harley accepted the flak and took a draught. "Haven't you ever heard of the waiting game?"

"Why do you wait?" Alexandra demanded, gesturing to the small supervisor's office tucked into the corner of the warehouse floor, where Victor, Mario, and Lucy were currently tied up. "Zsasz and Lucy will know where to find Roman. Mario will know where to find his brother."

"Alberto's skipped town, and Mario doesn't know shit," Harley drawled, passing the flask to another thug. "Victor is Roman's puppet; he won't talk. And Lucy…" Harley pointed at the laptop charging on the floor beside her. "Lucy just needs some _inspiration_."

Alexandra sneered and wandered off to converse with Sweetie, both of them shooting Harley suspicious looks as she settled in to wait with the other Odessa thugs.

A few of them were of the homeless teenager variety, just looking for something to believe in and someone to take care of them. A few more were good old fashioned muscle there for the payday. But a large section of the group were genuine anarchists, and in her brilliant mood, Harley didn't have to dig deep or pretend too hard to engage in a robust debate with them to pass the time.

The sun rose and the hours ticked past, and then finally, Harley got the text she's been waiting for on Lee's old blackberry. She booted up the laptop and started typing while Alexandra eyed her warily.

"Separate Zsasz from Lucy and Mario," Harley ordered, not looking up until she realized Alexandra hadn't moved to do as instructed. "What's the problem?" Harley asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alexandra scowled but still snapped at two of her bigger goons to retrieve Victor nonetheless. He didn't struggle as they marched him out, his hollow eyes glued to Harley's paint-smeared face once he spotted her. She stood up and tucked the laptop under her arm, returning his stare impassively as the thugs stopped in front of her.

"Huh," Harley mused, her eyes drifting over Victor, from his shiny bald head to his black-on-black suiting, up to his red-rimmed, lashless eyes. "It's weird, but I just don't feel like killing you anymore," she shrugged and offered him a saccharine smile. "Now that I know you're nothing but Roman's kicked puppy, I just don't… _care_."

Victor's eyes narrowed to slits, but Harley had already lost interest in him, waving a dismissive hand to signify she was finished.

"Let's make this fast," Alexandra insisted as she followed Harley to the small office.

"Hey, it's not up to me," Harley countered, pushing the office door open to reveal a small, dirty room with a desk and three folding chairs. Two of the chairs were currently occupied by Lucy and Mario, tied back to back, gagged with duct tape.

They both looked around furtively when Harley pushed the door open, observing that neither of them was holding up very well under stress. Mario's suit was torn at the shoulder, his shirt dirty, untucked, and missing a few buttons, and he had a dark pink bruise spreading across his temple where Harley hit him. Lucy's long, pink-sequinned dress had lost a strap and gained a tear running up her thigh, and it looked likely she'd broken her nose when Harley slammed her face into the birdcage. It was swollen and cut, and she had blue-black bruising growing across _and_ beneath both of her eyes, a thick, magenta mark crossing her face where she'd hit the pole.

Harley set the open laptop down on the desk and turned it away from their hostages while Lucy immediately began struggling against her bonds, her green eyes livid. She tried to shout past her gag and rocked against Mario, who was craning his head around to see what was happening.

"Oh, stop it," Harley grinned, giving Lucy a wide berth as she squeezed past her and squatted down in front of Mario. "I've had much worse," Harley informed him, ripping the duct tape off his mouth.

"Ah!" he gasped, recoiling when he realized how close Harley was. "What you want!" he stuttered.

" _Money_ ," Harley flashed him a grin. "I just want your money. Then I'll let you go."

"Wha-what?" Mario stammered while Lucy began bucking furiously against her restraints, her muffled threats loud and hoarse behind the duct tape.

"You really are just a big teddy bear, aren't you," Harley sighed, rising to her feet and circling back to Lucy, who glared at her with such loathing Harley had to laugh.

"I get it," Harley said, smiling. "Penguin leaves you with the club and no money. Then one day some handsome businessman with a kink for masks and cemeteries swoops in to save the day." She squatted down so she was eye-level with Lucy but didn't take off her gag. "I mean, what were you supposed to do? Say _no_ to all the money and power?"

Lucy glared back at her, indignation and resentment flashing in her green eyes.

"But it's not _really_ about power for you, not like the others, is it Lucy?" Harley mused, searching Lucy's bruised face a moment longer before she ripped the tape off her mouth, making Lucy hiss through clenched teeth. "For you, it's about safety," Harley observed. "And _respect_."

"You psycho bitch," Lucy scowled, watching Harley rise to her feet before her eyes darted to Alexandra. "Jesus _Christ,_ have you got a fuckin' _death_ wish?" Lucy demanded, bewildered. "Partnering up with _her_? The boss is gonna be—"

"Roman Sionis is a capitalist _scumbag_ , just like his friends Hill and Daggett," Alexandra sneered. "I cannot work for a man like that."

Lucy's eyes widened. As far as she was aware, Alexandra was in the dark about Roman's identity and the other False Face Society members.

But it seemed _Lucy_ wasn't.

"Alright," Lucy nodded, looking between Harley and Alexandra resolutely. "Ya know his name, fair enough. You think that'll stop him flaying you alive? Huh? He ain't gonna put up with betrayal like this! Especially not for this clown cunt!"

"John Daggett is dead," Alexandra informed Lucy coldly. "Hamilton Hill handed him over of his own free will. You should reexamine where your loyalty lies." She glanced sideways at Harley. "And you should understand this clown cunt is showing you mercy."

Harley nodded enthusiastically.

"Don't listen to em' Lucy!" Mario jumped in. "They been brainwashed by the Joker!"

"Oh, _please_ ," Harley rolled her eyes and reached for the laptop sitting open on the desk.

She spun it around, revealing a woman with heavy-lidded eyes and high cheekbones, her long black hair draped sleekly over one shoulder, her scarlet lips composed in a sneer.

Sofia Falcone was Skype'ing from Milan.

"Brother," Sofia snapped, her voice crackling over the laptop speakers. "You've done a brilliant job of fucking everything up, haven't you?"

" _Sofia_?!" Mario yelped while Lucy lapsed into stunned silence, staring at the laptop incredulously.

"What did Father always tell you?" Sofia demanded. "Do not fall for teachings of demagogues, and _never_ listen to your brother."

"Dad's in fuckin' the nuthouse, Sof," Mario countered emotionally. "He ain't exactly around to give advice these days."

 _"_ I thank _God_ Mother isn't alive to hear you say such things," Sofia huffed imperiously.

"You think she's ain't rollin' in her grave knowing you're taking sides with a terrorist over your own family?" Mario sounded on the verge of tears.

" _Mother_ understood that human beings are flawed and complicated. How else could she love Bertie?" Sofia shot back immediately. "And I trust Harley Quinn's judgment far more than yours, _Mario_."

"Then you're fuckin' crazy!" Lucy jumped in viciously.

 _"Lucy_ ," Mario hissed, horrified while Sofia tisked impatiently.

"If you do not understand the influence Harley Quinn wields in Gotham then you are nothing more than a little girl playing games," Sofia countered, making Lucy's face fall. "Now you are losing a game that will end with _both_ of you at the bottom of the East River if you are not exceedingly careful."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Lucy snapped, unimpressed. "You want us to team up with the Joker and Harley fuckin' Quinn?"

"I want you to be smarter," Sofia narrowed her heavy-lidded eyes. "This isn't about _teaming_ up. It is about navigating Gotham's ever-shifting alliances. Clearly, this is a concept Ms Kosov can comprehend better than you _children_."

Harley shot Alexandra a smirk but she just rolled her eyes, unaffected by the praise.

"Black Mask's days are numbered," Sofia continued. "As yours will be if you do not heed my advice."

Lucy flopped back in her chair, looking conflicted, her mind obviously racing. Meanwhile, Mario argued with his sister about dynastic regime change and past transgressions. Sofia shot down all of it with the utmost disdain, suggesting their father would be horrified to learn how weak Mario was, which promptly shut him up.

" _Now._ You will have to excuse me," Sofia sniffed once she'd said her piece. "The Clooney's are visiting from Lake Granada, and I have had more than enough of your blubbering."

Suitably chastised, Mario and Lucy sulked in silence while Harley stepped forward to address Sofia.

"Darling," Sofia sighed. "How dreadful for you to be surrounded by such incompetence."

"Lucy's not incompetent," Harley caught Lucy's eye across the room. "She just trusted the wrong people."

"Fool me once, as they say," Sofia agreed, raising her chin. "Look after yourself, darling."

"I will," Harley promised just as Lee's Blackberry beeped in her hand. She glanced at the screen then shot Sofia a smirk. "Pam's here."

"Thank God for that," Sofia huffed, looking relieved. Then she took a deep breath, her expression hardening. "Brother," she snapped, drawing Mario's sullen gaze. "I love you. Do not make me return to Gotham for your funeral."

And with that last platitude, Sofia disappeared, replaced by a black screen as she ended the video call.

"That was a dirty trick," Lucy scowled while Harley ducked down to retrieve the knife in her boot, holding it up for Lucy to see.

"What's it going to be, Lucy?" Harley countered. "Are you going to keep letting Roman use you?" She raised her eyebrows appraisingly. "Or are you going to take control of your life?"

Lucy pressed her lips together, her eyes darting between the knife and Harley's face, probably trying to work out if she was going to end up dead regardless of the answer she gave.

Deciding a concession was in order, Harley stepped forward and cut the zip ties binding Lucy and Mario. They rolled their shoulders forward and rubbed their arms, Mario turning to Lucy with wide eyes, leaving it up to her to decide their fate.

Lucy slowly pulled herself out of the folding chair on shaky legs, her expression shifting from outright hostility to something more uneasy.

"You really think you can take Roman out?" she asked warily.

"Yes," Harley said immediately, glancing at Alexandra. "Can you give us a moment?"

Alexandra nodded moodily and grabbed Mario by one thick arm, hauling him out of his chair and marching him out of the office.

Lucy watched silently, not protesting her boyfriend being manhandled.

"You don't know what Roman's capable of," she warned Harley once the door clicked shut.

"He doesn't know what I'm capable of either," Harley shot back. "He underestimated me… Just like _everyone_ underestimates you."

"Are you tryin' to manipulate me?" Lucy demanded, her bruised eyes narrowing. "You think you can run the mob through me, huh? Like you did with Sofia?"

"I can't think of anything I want _less_ ," Harley sneered, exasperated.

Lucy's eyes darted to the floor, her jaw working as she struggled with her thoughts.

Then she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath like she was bracing herself.

"He lives in the Falcone Penthouse at the Flatiron," she finally admitted, determinedly avoiding Harley's gaze. "If he's not there, he's at the Janus Plastics Plant in Oldtown. That's where he…"

Where he makes his _toys_ , Harley realized.

Lucy looked up at Harley, her face tense. She was trying to project strength, but she was terrified about what Roman would do to her if he found out she'd betrayed him.

Well, _that_ was disappointing.

"You can go to the Falcone's safe house north of the city and wait this out," Harley offered, eyeing Lucy curiously. "It's not like either or you would be much help here," she added drily.

Lucy's nostrils flared, suspicious and indignant about such _generosity_ coming from Harley Quinn.

"What the fuck is goin' on, huh?" she demanded, once again animated and full of life, not cowering, not _afraid_. "What do you want from me? Why are you showing _me_ mercy?"

"I want you to stop fucking around and do what _you_ want for a change," Harley insisted, exasperated. "Don't be Roman's _puppet_. Don't be _anyone's_ puppet. Show _everyone_ how dangerous you can be."

Because that was what this _mercy_ really came down to for Harley. Not just getting one up on Roman, and definitely not installing someone weak she could control. Harley was curious to see what Lucy was capable of if given a little _push_ in the right direction. She'd always sensed that blossom of power was there inside Lucy, suppressed by the men who leaned on her, and now Harley wanted to see that power come to fruition. She wanted to see what Lucy was truly capable of; what lengths she would go to, and how far she would push the envelope.

Seeing an opening, Harley pulled Victor's gun from her holster and offered it to Lucy, whose eyes widened.

"So what's it going to be?" Harley raised one eyebrow as Lucy took the gun from her, hesitant, processing some feelings of her own. "Are you the boss or not?"

A shiver of anticipation rolled over Harley's shoulders as she waited to see what Lucy would do.

Lucy stared at the gun a moment longer, then lifted her green eyes to Harley's. Her arm swung up, her face resolute as she pointed the gun at Harley's forehead and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked uselessly, the chamber empty.

Lucy's eyes widened indignantly when Harley started to smirk, _thrilled_ to see Lucy had the balls to shoot her in the face if given the opportunity.

Scowling, Lucy pushed past her and stormed out of the office while Harley followed, grinning triumphantly.

Pam was waiting outside, looking sleepy in a Sunrise Project hoodie with the sleeves pulled down over her hands, her red hair tied back in a stubby ponytail. Her eyebrows rose as she watched Lucy stomp across the warehouse toward a clunky old Buick where Mario and Victor were waiting, both apparently on board with the plan to hide out at Falcone's old safe house until Roman was dead.

"That seemed to go well," Pam observed, shooting Harley a smirk. "I had a little chat with Zsasz."

"Oh yeah?" Harley grinned. "Is he Lucy's pet now?"

"Yeah, _and_ he told me what Roman did to him," Pam widened her eyes, looking delighted. "Let's just say Zsasz is missing one of his more _significant '_ parts.'"

 _"Aww_ ," Harley cooed, grinning. "Poor little _creature_."

They burst into laughter together, doubling over and leaning on each other until Alexandra stormed up to them, grim-faced as usual.

"I must return to my people," she announced, her steely eyes darting between Harley and Pam suspiciously.

"Come on, tell me you didn't have fun," Harley ribbed her, to which Alexandra scoffed and marched away without another word, making Harley and Pam snicker together.

"How's Lee?" Harley asked once Alexandra was far enough away.

"She seems fine," Pam admitted, stifling a yawn. "J dropped Ed off a few hours ago, and she was genuinely relieved to see him."

"That's so weird," Harley frowned.

"Why's it weird?" Pam made a face. "She's lonely and bored, he's needy and exciting, and he has friends like you."

"I'm not _friends_ with Ed," Harley countered moodily.

"Someone better tell him that," Pam snorted, looking amused. "He _wouldn't_ shut up about you."

"Oh, God," Harley groaned, running her hand over her face.

"Stop it," Pam laughed. "Ed's hilarious! You just don't like the idea of having competition once this is all over."

" _Competition?_ " Harley scoffed incredulously. "When this is all over I'm putting a _bullet_ in his head."

"Sure you are," Pam smirked, looking so smug Harley actually scowled. "Want me to drone him for you? You can make him wear flares and Ugg boots."

"Mm," Harley's scowl eased. "That would be his idea of hell." Then something occurred to her. "Did you use inception on Victor?"

"Nah," Pam yawned and stretched her arms over her head. "I just poked around a little bit and reorganized his priorities."

"How does that work?" Harley frowned, something uneasy tickling the back of her neck.

"His emotions were very… _obvious_ ," Pam explained. "Broken, maybe. Like Roman reduced his emotional range to the most basic reactions, and he was openly waiting to be influenced."

"Jesus," Harley muttered, her curiosity piqued. "So you can sense peoples' feelings now?"

"Kinda," Pam wrinkled her nose. "I know it's their emotions I'm hooked into. I can feel that. It's all a lot more visceral than it used to be."

"But 'poking around,'" Harley used her index fingers to make quotations. "That's different than droning them like you used to?"

"It's like when I tell someone to forget my face," Pam shrugged. "I can leave that one instruction and let go. Inception is like a bigger version of that with a bigger idea. Like the difference between forgetting you're hungry and forgetting you have a kid, you know? But with a drone, I'm hooked into them. I can sense them and call them to my side. I wouldn't be able to do that with Victor or Hill."

"Huh," Harley murmured. What Pam said made plenty of sense, but the idea of her over-using her abilities still made Harley's shoulders tense.

Pam released another epic yawn, twining her arms together over her head and blinking hard.

"You should go back to Lee's, get some more sleep," Harley suggested, distracted.

"You're not coming?" Pam raised an eyebrow. "You should get some sleep too."

Harley tried to fight back a smirk.

"J and I have a little… _Pied a Terre_ nearby," she admitted.

"A _Pied a Terre?_ " Pam made a face. "God, you two are obsessed with each other's genitals."

Harley cracked up at that, but she still couldn't shake that sliver of dread scratching at her spine.

* * *

It had not been a good night for Crane.

After being subjected to… _hours_ of watching Roman torture Lonnie, Roman suggested they go for dinner at the Ritz Gotham. He'd been in a cheerful mood, explaining over foie gras and caviar that he didn't _just_ want Lonnie to tell him what he knew about Harleen and the Joker—which Lonnie had not yet done—nor was Roman only interested in using Lonnie to take down Wayne.

Roman wanted Lonnie to be _his_.

"Some people are worth my full attention," Roman explained, smiling as he piled a spoonful of caviar onto a delicate toast.

During dinner, the election results were announced: Hamilton Hill would be Gotham's new Mayor, giving Roman even more power over the city once he installed his own District Attorney and Police Commissioner.

Rather than celebrate with Hill, cocktails followed dinner at the Tobacconist's Club with a group of Chinese bankers, business Crane would say fell under the header of Roman's 'Day Job.'

Crane stuck close to Roman's side throughout it all, silent and fearful, nauseous over the idea that Lonnie might replace him in the pecking order, just as Crane had replaced Reeves as Roman's companion and confidant. It made Crane feel competitive for Roman's attention, wanting to please him so he wouldn't end up by the wayside.

Back at the penthouse, Crane lay in bed obsessing over how he might make himself more useful, feeling small and pathetic comparing himself to Lonnie. And when Roman inevitably brought Harleen under his wing, he would surely be cast aside then. Harleen, who Roman spoke of as if she were a goddess of war, ruthless and beautiful and capable of giving Roman everything he wanted. Where would that leave Crane?

Then, in the middle of the night, he awoke from a restless sleep to Roman... _screaming_.

Another tantrum, directed at a Reeves and a pair of well-dressed henchmen this time. Crane walked into the kitchen to find Roman in his dressing gown, beating one of those henchmen with a fire poker, the other already dead on the floor. Reeves was cowering in the corner, holding his mutilated hand close to his chest. It was turning gangrenous beneath the dirty bandage, the antibiotics Roman had been dolling out as rewards not enough to stop the spread.

Crane and Reeves waited for the fit of fury to play itself out, Crane growing increasingly nauseous as he watched the man he was so eager to please behave as if he were… _deranged._

Crane raced to a bathroom decorated in geometric prints and potted ferns, emptying his guts of the caviar and foie gras. When he returned to the kitchen, he was greeted with a new disturbing scene: Roman in Reeves' arms, being soothed. Reeves looked pained and sick, trembling and broken as he smoothed Roman's curling black hair from his face, murmuring reassuring things while Roman buried his face in Reeves's shoulder.

It was obvious this was not the first time Reeves had provided this kind of comfort.

Eventually, it was explained that the Iceberg Lounge had been attacked by Harley Quinn and Alexandra Kosov, who had taken Lucy and the Falcone brothers with them, probably killing them after interrogating them. Kosov controlled all the muscle in town, and she had far more men at her disposal than Roman could hope to. Her partnering with Harleen and the Joker, and with Lucy and the Falcones removed from the equation, the underworld Roman spent so much time cultivating was essentially lost to him.

It only grew worse as dawn approached. Roman's contact at the MCU, Lieutenant Grogan, called to inform them that John Daggett had been found dead at the old shipyard, his face cut like the Joker's.

Another tantrum ensued, another pair of henchmen were viciously murdered.

Crane remembered the Joker's words, just weeks earlier.

_If I were you, Crane, I wouldn't get on her bad side. You got no idea what she's capable of._

He ran to the toilet again, vomiting up green bile and dry heaving until there was nothing left.

Time seemed to move both very fast and very slow after that. Despite Reeves's obvious illness and the fact that Crane was wanted by the police for a litany of crimes, they accompanied Roman to the MCU to view Daggett's body.

Lieutenant Grogan was tall and muscular with a bushy ginger mustache and a thick head of hair, an imposing man who stank of cigars and was no stranger to corruption. He'd been promised to be named Police Commissioner under Hill, and he watched uneasily from the corner of the morgue as Roman stared down at John Daggett's corpse.

"Oh, John," Roman sighed, examining the shallow, bloodless cuts marring Daggett's face. "I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it."

Grogan cleared his throat awkwardly, drawing Roman's attention.

"Mr Sionis," he rumbled. "I can only keep the crew outta here for so long."

"Thank you, Peter," Roman offered one of his mild smiles. "Hamilton will be in touch shortly to discuss your… promotion."

"Thank you, sir," Gorgan nodded stiffly, looking uncomfortable.

"Jonathan," Roman turned away from Daggett's body, finding Crane's pale blue eyes in the dimly lit morgue. "Go to the plant and keep an eye on Anarky for me. We still have work to do."

Crane nodded, feeling nauseous again, unable to see what other choices he had.

"Arthur," Roman continued, and Reeves staggered forward eagerly, shakey on his feet. "Go to Ms Kosov," Roman instructed softly. "Tell her I have a message for Harley Quinn."

* * *

**A/N: OHHHHH SHIT, ROMAN YOU FUCKED NOW!**

**If you can't tell from Harley's pied a terre comment, next week opens up with smut before we head into the third act.**

**There was an itty bitty name drop I think some of you have been waiting for but may have given up on, lol—because it's really a plot hole I've had to fight my way out of. Let's see who picked up on it.**

**Next: the Joker helps Harley work through her control issues, Reeves delivers Roman's message, and everything finally comes to a head.**

**Please comment and review! They're what keeps me going.  
**

**Leave a Kudos if AO3 will let ya ;)**

**xo**


	21. Chapter 21

_Theme: New Order - 'Elegia' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Xs7CP4Gw8wJ8qX8fkrCAB?si=Z6Un-yQvRV-Zc6eHAzs2DQ)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/omzJvwYO440)) _

_(Or my favorite version, this[Extended Mix,](https://youtu.be/3LY3ftiLqmE) which is from a special 12" vinyl release, and is only available on Youtube as it's never been released digitally._ _)  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

21.

* * *

Harley was coming up to twenty-four hours without sleep, which wasn't especially bad in her book. Thanks to Lucy, they knew where to ferret Roman out—his father's old factory in Oldtown, or the Falcone Penthouse, both of which were _painfully_ predictable.

 _God_ , Harley was looking forward to killing him.

The Joker and Frost were rounding up henchmen from Alexandra Kosov's gang while Pam and Ed caught up on sleep at Lee's, so after stopping at a drive-thru to grab a couple of burgers, Harley headed back to the Burnely Arms safehouse to do the same.

She stepped over the threshold and kicked off the slouchy cream-colored boots, refusing to acknowledge that Ed had the good sense to buy her something comfortable. She left the outrageous pink dress in a puddle on the floor, then ducked down to drag a duffle bag out from under the bed.

It smelled musty, filled with basics from before she and the Joker left Gotham. A multipack of clean panties and shampoo for her, a straight razor and shaving cream for him, a collection of tee shirts and socks for both of them.

Harley changed her underwear and tugged on a tee-shirt, then collapsed onto the bed. It smelled overwhelmingly of cigarettes and sweat, making her nose wrinkle as she fantasized about fresh sheets. That was right at the top of her list once Roman was dealt with.

Tired but not quite exhausted, she closed her eyes and tried to find sleep, but her mind kept circling, her conversation with Pam at the warehouse refusing to leave her.

Harley was a data person. She needed to know all facts and figures, in a spreadsheet if possible, though that was rarely the case. Pam's explanation for what she'd done to Victor just wasn't _good_ enough. It only gave Harley more questions. There were too many variables, too many unknowns, and there was room for _error_ within those unknowns. Errors Harley needed to anticipate so she could stop them.

If Pam existed a thousand years earlier, there was no doubt people would have worshipped her as a God. They would have written religious texts about the awesomeness of her power and carved statues in her name.

But ultimately, it wasn't the grandiosity of Pam's abilities that worried Harley—it was Pam's _hunger_ for power that was cause for concern.

It was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Harley could _sense_ it. Even the way she spoke about those politicians and big oil bosses. It was there.

But what brought that hunger to life in a very real and dangerous way was Pam's ability to connect and stay linked to multiple minds—multiple limbic systems was Harley's working theory—like a spider's web stretched to breaking. Pam promised she understood that now and that she could control it. And Harley trusted her. Mostly.

Harley dozed in and out of sleep over the course of the day, getting in at least a few REM cycles, she hoped. By late afternoon she couldn't bring herself to lay down any longer and migrated into the safehouse's small kitchen, nibbling on leftover take out and forcing her thoughts away from Pam toward Roman.

She was sitting on the kitchen counter, poking at a few cold french fries and working through a strategy for making him suffer when the safehouse door banged open. The Joker strode in, still sharp in the navy pinstripe suit, though he'd misplaced the maroon tie, something Harley could already imagine Ed complaining about. He also had a garment bag from the tailor slung over his shoulder, looking far more chipper than Harley felt.

"How'd it go?" Harley asked mildly, shoving the bag of fries across the counter toward him.

The Joker ignored them, narrowing his eyes at her, immediately reading her mood.

"What _now_?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Harley insisted, avoiding his eye.

The last thing he would want to hear about was Harley worrying about Pam. That ticked just about every possible box it took to annoy him to the nth degree.

"Uh huh," he shot back flatly, obviously not believing her. So Harley tried a little harder.

"I have a _great_ idea for Roman," she smirked, hoping to knock herself out of her poor mood. Events forthcoming were about to kick off—that was something to be _excited_ about.

The Joker's mouth twitched up on one side, creatively plotting death and destruction far more agreeable to him than her 'moods.' He inclined his head to the bedroom.

"Why dontcha come tell me _all_ about it."

Harley hopped off the counter and trailed after him, lingering in the doorway while he slung the garment bag over a chair and shrugged out of his suit jacket, leaving it on the floor beside her dress. He flopped down on the bed and toed off his shoes, then began rolling up his shirtsleeves while Harley leaned against the door, her arms folded, watching his long fingers work the pale lavender fabric up to his elbows to expose a pair of ropy forearms.

Her mind began to drift away from Roman, who she now felt she could control. She had the upper hand. She was holding all the cards, and he was desperate.

But Pam…

"Spit it out, Harl," the Joker snapped, his eyebrows raising impatiently when Harley looked up at him.

"It's Pam," she admitted, knowing she couldn't hide it from him. "She flipped Victor without inception. She tried explaining how it's not a big deal, but…"

Harley trailed off and wrapped her arms around herself.

"But you got a bad feeling about it," the Joker inferred, planting his hands behind him on the bed. "You think Red's up to her old _tricks._ "

"I told you what it was like last time," Harley sighed. "She was like a drug addict."

"Oh, I _remember_ ," he shot back. "And it ain't _your_ problem."

Harley sighed in exasperation, knowing he could never understand. Most of the time, she enjoyed his predication for not giving a shit. She found it soothing. But Pam… Pam was the exception to the rule for Harley, just as Harley was the exception for the Joker.

He seemed to understand what she was thinking and hunched forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, trying a different tact.

"You _can't_ control her," he pointed out drily.

"I don't want to control her," Harley insisted.

"Yes, you do," the Joker smirked. "Just like you wanna control _everything_ else. But you _can't_. Worrying about Red losing her marbles again won't stop it happening."

Harley nodded sullenly when it occurred to her that he was showing a remarkable amount of patience for her 'moodiness' and her relationship with Pam—not just putting up with it, but engaging her.

A smile slipped onto her lips as she pushed away from the doorframe.

The Joker cocked an eyebrow, his eyes sweeping over her quickly as she swayed up to him.

"The world's a chaotic place, puddin'," he drawled, his head tipping back so he was looking up at her through hooded eyes. "Ya can't control it… tryin' to just makes you _crazy_."

"I know," Harley agreed softly. She tugged her top off over her head so she was naked aside from a small pair of black briefs, and his hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer. "I'm working on it," she added drily, bracing her knee on the bed beside his thigh so she could climb into his lap.

"Mm," the Joker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Maybe I can help."

Harley snorted and was about to make a quip when he grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her sideways, knocking her off balance so she ended up sprawled across his lap, her ass in the air. Harley laughed incredulously until he forced one of her arms behind her back, immobilizing her with a move that occasionally resulted in dislocated limbs for especially unlucky people.

Harley reacted instinctively, struggling to wiggle free, but he held her firmly in place, unrelenting, his grip on her arm tightening.

Then he spanked her, _hard,_ the sharp, surprising sting making her gasp.

"Hey!" Harley snapped indignantly, the fact that she was currently _over his knee_ driving her to revolt despite her stomach fluttering excitedly.

"Now, we both know Dr Quinzel can be very uh... _naughty_ when she wants to be," the Joker started, _exceptionally_ smug.

Harley's eyes widened, and she yelped when he spanked her again in the same sensitive place, her body annoyingly responsive to the sensation.

There was a _swick!_ of a knife opening, and Harley's heart started leaping frantically, anticipation racing through her as he sliced through one strap of her underwear and then the other before pulling the scrap of fabric free.

"Always trying to control _everything_ ," the Joker continued, his voice husky, his hand skating over her ass and the backs of her thighs. "Does that sound like a certain uptight _shrink_ we both know?"

He spanked her again, and Harley stubbornly bit her bottom lip, fighting the urge to spread her legs for him.

"I think that's something we can work through _together_ ," he continued, patronizing. He squeezed his hand between the seam of her thighs and forced them apart. "Don't you just wanna _give in,_ doc?"

That was the moment Harley realized what they were doing—a little exercise in _control_.

She fought with herself for a full five seconds over what she wanted to do, but she could feel her stubbornness melting away. His hand was still between her legs, his thumb a hair's breadth from her core while his fingertips drifted over the soft skin of her inner thigh, making her shiver almost feverishly.

Yes, Harley realized, yes, she wanted nothing more than to give in and let him take over for a little while.

Instead of agreeing verbally, she lifted her free arm and folded it behind her back, offering it to him as she buried her face in the cool sheets.

He made a pleased sound and released her to take off his belt while Harley breathed deeply, attempting to display some patience. It was far more challenging to be patient than to trust him to make this _good_. Of that, she had no doubt he would.

He tied her arms behind her back with his belt, taking away her most basic capacity to control the situation, and then he slid his hand back between her legs, spreading them wider. Harley's heartbeat throbbed in her neck as she waited for him to touch her, and when he finally smoothed two fingers over her, she sighed shakily, a velvety heat pooling at her core.

It was pointless, but Harley still tried to muffle a groan as he found a firm, lazy pattern that made her eyes roll back in her head and her hips twitch against his hand. She knew he could feel how excited she was, tied up, over his knee, and at his disposal, her body getting obscenely wet for him. There was no point hiding it, so she gave in, keening encouragingly when he slid a long finger inside her.

Then he stopped. He gathered her up in his arms, and stood to swing her around, dropping her on the bed carelessly.

Harley landed on her back with an unhappy 'oof,' her arms pinned beneath her, making her shoulders ache. She shot him a dirty look that just made him chuckle incredulously because he was fully clothed and standing, while she was completely naked and tied up, her cheeks flushed pink, her excitement obvious even as she glared at him.

"You are so bad at this," he observed drily, planting his knee on the bed and pitching forward over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head.

"Maybe _you're_ the one who's bad at it," Harley countered, raising her eyebrows stubbornly, making him chuckle again.

"We'll see about that," he shot her a knowing look, then lowered his mouth to her collarbone, squeezing her breast while he made his way down her chest.

Harley closed her eyes when he pulled one of her nipples between his teeth, a sharp pinch that made her sigh as he swirled his tongue around it. One of his hands smoothed down her body and over her hip, his mouth shifting to her other breast as his fingers picked up where he'd left off between her legs.

"Imagine _that_ ," he purred, glancing up at her. " _Naughty_ Dr Quinzel likes being tied up and _spanked_ ," he taunted her.

Harley's lips parted to retort when he slipped a finger inside her again, his thumb pressing against her clit, and she gave up on talking as he moved the two digits together. Her eyes closed, and her head fell back, and she sighed quietly as she allowed herself to be dragged under by the current of desire.

Then his mouth was beside her ear, his nose bumping against her temple. "What would people think if they knew Dr Quinzel was such a _greedy slut."_

Harley laughed quietly, her head rolling to the side so she could kiss him. But he grabbed her chin firmly, twisting her head away so hard a joint in her neck popped, startling her.

"Oh no, no, no doc," the Joker growled in her ear. "You only get what I _give_ you."

Harley nodded obediently, and he rubbed his nose into her hair for a few lingering moments before slithering down her body, pushing her legs apart and diving forward to taste her.

His breath was hot, his tongue wet and slow, just the way she liked it. Harley melted into the sheets, forgetting her arms were tied behind her back as he took his time building her up until she was panting weakly, her hips rolling up off the bed.

"Fuck," Harley breathed, her spread knees trembling as an orgasm started to bloom at her core. Her stomach muscles began to contract with pleasure, and her body clamped down on his fingers as she dug her heels into the mattress, arching up off the bed, gasping.

The Joker withdrew from her a split second before she started to come apart, leaving her panting and dazed, hanging over the precipice, just as she'd known he would.

She released a long breath through pursed lips, her heart racing, her body electrified.

But simultaneously, she felt incredibly… _calm._

The sound of a zipper lowering prompted her to open her eyes. The Joker was still kneeling between her legs, eyeing her curiously, a faint smirk on his lips like he was watching something both very entertaining and slightly bewildering. Harley's eyes dipped down to his cock, and she felt a needy throb between her legs as she watched his hand move over his length.

He grabbed her ankle, making her take a sharp breath as he dragged her to the edge of the bed, then tugged on one of her bound arms to haul her up so she was sitting.

Harley looked up at him uncertainly, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly, prompting her to lean forward and lick the head of his cock with a teasing flick of her tongue.

He popped her on the cheek, making her rear back in surprise, her eyes wide, feeling bizarrely speechless.

"What did I say, hmm," he ran a fingertip down her cheekbone as she stared up at him in silence. "Only what I _give_ you."

Harley licked her lips, her heart racing as she understood what he wanted. She opened her mouth and let her tongue slip out, offering herself to him.

Something dark and positively _delicious_ flashed in the Joker's eyes, and the power balance between them seemed to flip on a dime. Harley was naked with her arms tied behind her back and her mouth wide open, but she knew as well as he did the moment it happened. She watched a series of emotions play out across his face—bewildered, hungry, _fascinated_ —and Harley toyed with the idea of demanding he get on his knees just to see what he'd do.

The way he was looking at her, she was pretty sure he would do whatever she wanted.

Feeling smug, Harley closed her mouth and smirked up at him, and he shot her a dubious look that said, _you are so bad at this,_ before he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling it so hard her scalp ached. That sliver of pain was enough to remind Harley of the point of this game, and though the desire to dominate him didn't fade, she still obediently opened her mouth for him, submitting.

For the moment.

"Good _girl_ ," he purred, sarcastic, holding her head in place as he guided his cock into her mouth and thrust past her parted lips.

Harley's eyes closed as she wrapped her lips around him, but otherwise let him control her movements, using his grip on her hair to guide her up and down his length. But it got boring fast, for both of them, so Harley improvised. She gave up on being passive in favor of sucking his cock enthusiastically, sloppily, _not_ very pretty. And when she looked up at him, the intensity of his eyes made her heart pound as she realized she'd inadvertently put herself in the driver's seat again.

 _Oops_.

He took a deep breath like he was bracing himself and fisted a handful of her hair, stopping her. Harley looked up at him expectantly as he drew her head back, a string of saliva trailing from his cock to her lips. He tipped his head to the side and squinted down at her curiously, and whatever power Harley momentarily felt she'd had flipped again. She found herself waiting silently to see what he would do next, with more patience than she'd ever been capable of in her life.

She yelped when he ducked down and grabbed one of her bound arms, using it to flip her over. Harley landed on her belly, her legs flailing off the side of the bed as she tried to get her bearings. The Joker grabbed her hips and hauled her up so she was on her knees, but supporting her weight on her face with her ass in the air. She shifted her head around, trying to get comfortable when he spanked her, the sharp slap making her cry out breathlessly, morphing into a throaty groan when he started stroking her from behind. He slid two long fingers inside her, then drew them out to circle her clit before repeating the process, slow and deliberate.

Harley swore furiously into the bedding, molten heat flooding her core, making her entire body tense as he continued those restrained, intentional ministrations, never giving her enough. Each time his fingers dipped inside her, he stimulated a deeper pleasure that made her body clench needily when he took it away, over and over until she was trembling and keening loudly. And eventually, like she always did, she gave in.

"Please let me come," Harley begged breathlessly. " _Please_."

"Oh, we're far from done, cupcake," the Joker growled, grabbing her bound hands and yanking them back so she was hanging, adding to the intensity of the moment as her body twitched helplessly, craving release so desperately she was nearly sobbing.

He released her arms abruptly, and she crashed face-first into the mattress, but before she could get her bearings, he was behind her, his cock sinking into her. Harley cried out in genuine relief once he was buried inside her, her body rippling around him as he grabbed her arms and hauled her up again, her shoulders straining and back arching.

Harley gave up on trying to get comfortable as he fucked her, hard and deep, until she was shrieking nonsense while he growled a string of hideously filthy promises. She gave up on caring about her arms being pulled out of the socket. She gave up on being stubborn or dignified, and she gave up on all forms of control. She gave in to the heady lust racing through her body like life itself as the Joker gave her exactly what she needed, not holding himself back, which was the only way she ever wanted him. It was fantastically freeing, making her downright giddy as the heat at her core transformed into a deep, sticky pleasure that inched up her torso and down her thighs, making her eyes sting as she panted helplessly, overwhelmed.

"C'mon, Harl," the Joker panted gruffly, slamming into her as he tugged in her bound arms. "Cum for _daddy_ like a _good girl_."

Harley's entire body spasmed as a powerful orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, sweeping her away in a rush of pleasure that throbbed through her veins and made her head spin. It felt like the greatest relief she'd ever known, rolling through every inch of her, leaving her fingers and toes and even her nose tingling, her heart nearly beating out of her chest.

Relentless waves of euphoria were still breaking over her when the Joker released her arms and pulled out of her. He caught her before she could keel over, then flopped onto the edge of the bed and hauled her into his lap so she was sitting astride him, so that he could see her face, Harley realized. She wavered without her arms to balance, feeling drunk as he guided her back onto his cock, watching her closely.

Harley's head fell back with a loud groan once he was inside her again, a fresh wave of pleasure spreading up her body. She searched the Joker's face as she dug her knees into the mattress on either side of his hips and started bouncing up and down to meet his rolling thrusts, his hands on her hips guiding her. He stared back at her intently, his eyes dark and electric, _scary,_ but so present, so all-consuming, Harley felt like she was being sucked inside him. Like she could live within his body and exist as part of him. She knew he was feeling the same thing as he pulled her down on him harder and searched her face in turn, wholly engrossed in her, _fascinated_.

Then Harley felt the belt start to come loose from her wrists, providing her with an opening that was too perfect to pass up.

She shook the belt free, catching it before it fell to the floor, then caught the Joker's eye. He realized a second too late that something had changed, and Harley whipped the belt out to the side with a _CRACK_ that distracted him for a few crucial moments, allowing her to loop the belt around his neck and pull it tight like a noose.

The Joker's eyes widened in one of those gloriously rare moments of genuine surprise. One of his hands flew up to his throat as he choked while his other squeezed her hip, his thumb digging into the bone painfully.

Harley ripped his hand away from his throat, smirking as she leaned in to press her lips against his ear.

"Always so cocky, _Jack_ ," she purred, yanking the belt tighter, making him gag as she started to fuck him, taking over. "That'll get you in trouble one day," she added breathlessly, rubbing her nose into his hair. "I _guarantee_ it."

His hands tightened on her, and Harley pulled back to watch his lips part in what might have been a groan if he'd been able to breathe. For once in his life, he was completely silent. She tugged on the belt again, tightening it, and his fingers bore into her body so sharply it genuinely felt like they might rip right through her.

"Imagine that," Harley panted, pleasure coiling low in her abdomen again, hot and succulent and so _good_. "Jack likes to take it even more than he likes to dole it out— _oh!_ Oh, _fuck,_ " she gasped.

She pulled the belt tighter and grabbed his shoulder to anchor herself, wishing she could tear through his shirt and rake her nails through his skin as she came again with a high-pitched whine, euphoria flooding her brain. The Joker made a strangled sound, and Harley felt him spill inside her, his fingers cutting into her sore flesh. She released the belt, her body still rolling erratically against his because she _never_ wanted to stop.

He sucked in a deep, wheezing breath, swaying and blinking hard through a prolonged orgasm. They both nearly toppled off the side of the bed until he grabbed Harley by her upper arms, using her to steady himself, and looking dazed while she slowed above him.

Harley laughed weakly as he collapsed backward, not with his usual dramatic flourish, but like he was genuinely completely drained. His head bounced against the mattress, and Harley fell on top of him, feeling so content and alive she could have cried.

"Ohhh-ho-ho-ho," he rasped, tossing the belt away and finding her eye. "You _minx_."

"You did say I could put a collar on you," Harley smirked, waggling her eyebrows as he chuckled and palmed his throat.

"Mm," he agreed mildly, looking sleepy. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head down to his, kissing her deeply.

Harley felt like she was being _devoured_. She kissed him back eagerly, taking part in some fantastic cycle of consumption, each of them taking turns to feed off the other for all of eternity. She threaded her hands through his hair, pushing it off his face as she indulged in a moment of pure unadulterated joy. The freedom. The chaos. The _life_ they shared together.

Then a phone buried in the Joker's trouser pocket beeped, the vibration rattling against Harley's bare knee, interrupting the moment.

Harley pulled back with a sigh while he shifted around to get the phone _—work_ was too important to ignore right now. He squinted at the screen, releasing an intrigued hum as Harley eased herself off of him, still dizzy and euphoric, her body wonderfully sore as she got to her feet.

"Frost just got word from _Alexandra_ ," the Joker announced slyly, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while he watched Harley roll her shoulders back and stretch her arms over her head, shaking off the soreness from having them bound behind her back.

"What's she want now?" Harley narrowed her eyes as the Joker sat up and shrugged his shirt off, snickering.

"Mmm, a Mr _Reeves_ has made himself _available_ to us through her," he waggled his eyebrows and hauled himself to his feet, his shirt landing on the floor. "Roman sent him with a _message_."

"Roman sent _Reeves_ to give us a message?" Harley's eyebrows rose, a grin spreading across her face.

Roman throwing Reeves under the bus was to be expected. Roman sending him to Alexandra in hopes of getting a message to them was something else entirely. That stank of _desperation._

The Joker shot Harley a knowing look, obviously thinking something similar, and he stood to grab the tailor's garment bag, throwing it down on the bed.

Harley watched him yank down the zipper, revealing a freshly cut suit inside. It was the first time in over six months either of them laid eyes on that particular shade of violet, and a stupid smile split Harley's face seeing it now. It felt like… _home_.

Still naked as the day she was born, Harley sidled up to the Joker, her fingers snaking up his bare chest to his neck.

" _Aww,_ " she cooed, feigning sympathy as she traced a faint bruise forming around his throat, the same shape and thickness as his discarded belt. "Looks like someone got you there."

She grinned up at him, making the Joker snort before he snatched her hand away from his neck, almost alarmingly fast. He squinted at her forearm where a similarly-shaped mark was forming above her wrist.

"Aww," he imitated her voice, catching her eye. "Looks like they got _you_ too."

Harley looped her free arm around his neck and rose up on her tiptoes, pressing the length of her body against his. One of his hands slid into her hair while the other settled on the small of her back, drawing her closer as he kissed her, deeply, slowly.

Harley pulled back a fraction, her lips lingering on the familiar curve of his scar as she took a shuddering breath, feeling overwhelmed.

"Mm," the Joker purred, his eyelids heavy as his hand slid up her spine. "Always so… _greedy."_

Harley chuckled happily.

* * *

After spending a prolonged period of time in the shower together, Harley and the Joker arranged to meet Frost and the others before they ran out of daylight. The Joker got dressed in the new suit and a pair of custom-made brogues while Harley shuffled through the duffle bag of clothes she'd brought from Samantha's, eventually settling on the fluttery red dress from _disco night._

Her fingers curled into the flimsy puddle of silk, a flicker of black _anger_ tickling the base of her skull. This dress wasn't just the property of some faceless disappeared woman anymore. Samantha Pierce owned this dress, and she had a face, along with a life and a story, one Roman Sionis featured prominently in. And just _thinking_ about the pretty, smiling, _empty_ shell of a human being… oh, it made Harley want to deliver some fucking _justice_.

She wasn't a sentimental person, and she didn't expend much intellectual energy on the question of justice. But the idea of ripping Roman's head off while she was wearing Samantha's dress appealed to her _greatly_.

She added a pair of black spandex bicycle shorts in case things got dicey and a high kick was in order, then shoved her feet into the slouchy cream-colored boots and shrugged on a holster, and they were ready to go.

They took the little red Jetta south to the Meatpacking District, parking around the side of the abandoned Hulu Meats Warehouse, where they could hastily apply their warpaint in the shadows.

Late afternoon sunlight poured in through broken planes of glass in the ceiling, creating the effect of God's hand lighting random patches of the filthy floor. It was eerily silent without Lucy's enraged screaming or the moody gruntings of Alexandra's thugs.

"I thought _we_ were the late ones?" the Joker complained, the fluttering of a pigeon's wings drawing his attention up to the ceiling.

Before Harley could respond, the side door crashed open, scaring a second cluster of pigeons into taking flight, their wings beating noisily.

"Sorry! Sorry! We're here!" Ed announced cheerfully, prompting Harley and the Joker to share a weary look.

Ed had exchanged the relatively subtle black suit they'd last seen him in for a seafoam-green one with a pink shirt and floral tie. He'd painted a fresh rectangle of black around his eyes and procured a new bowler hat to replace the plastic one from the party shop. Behind him was Pam, in jeans and a camisole, the tiny perfume bottle dangling from a slim gold chain around her neck.

"Oh… _wow_ ," Ed's eyes widened as he looked Harley over.

"What?" Harley snapped, planting her fists on her hips.

"Just, _that_ dress with _those_ boots," Ed laughed awkwardly, wincing. "It's um… an interesting choice!"

"Fuck you, Ed," Harley scoffed. "Where have you been?"

"We had to make a stop," Pam explained, looking amused.

"Did you go shopping again?" Harley demanded, pivoting back to Ed.

" _No,_ we swung past _my_ place," he tisked, still eyeing her outfit uncertainly, making Harley roll her eyes.

The warehouse's side door slammed open again, and this time Frost stomped over the threshold with a hysterical Arthur Reeves in tow.

Reeves looked terrible, fear making him shrink from handsome polo-player to terrified oversized rodent. His eyes were hollow and red-rimmed, his face haggard and pale, and his left hand had taken on a green tinge beneath dirty bandages where infection set in from his missing finger.

"Uh oh," Ed snickered while the Joker released a shrill giggle that quickly morphed into a full belly laugh, overtaking Reeves's begging and making Harley's ears ring.

"Will you shut the fuck up!" Pam snapped, which only encouraged the Joker. His head fell back as he wheezed out another delighted howl that made the remaining pigeons in the rafters scatter.

Frost threw Reeves to the floor at the Joker's feet, and Reeves immediately scrambled backward, only to find himself looking up at Pam. She lifted an unimpressed eyebrow, and Reeves's eyes darted to Ed and then Harley, his lips trembling as he realized no one there would be helping him.

"He says Roman wants a talk with ya," Frost explained, sounding close to annoyed. "Said he wants a _Parley_."

"Parley," Pam scoffed. "What a pretentious dick."

Harley folded her arms and squinted down at Reeves,

"Hello, Arthur," she greeted him coldly. "Was there anything else to that message?"

"Harley," Reeves panted, his chest rising and falling sharply as he tried to control his breathing. "I—I'm _so_ sorry. He—he—"

"He said Roman wants ya to meet him at the Falcone penthouse," Frost filled in blithely. "Midnight. Says he wants to negotiate."

Harley nearly rolled her eyes—how _predictable_.

She cocked her head to the side, frowning at Reeves. "Anything else?"

When Reeves just stared back at her helplessly, fighting back tears, Harley sighed sorrowfully, shaking her head.

"I gotta say, Reeves, you feel less like a messenger and more like a sacrificial offering."

"That's _right_ up BM's gloomy-ass street," Ed observed cheerfully.

"Harley, I—I know things! I can tell you things!" Reeves insisted, getting desperate. "About the business, the drugs, Hill..."

"Pretty sure we know all about that," Pam pointed out flatly.

The Joker dropped into a squat in front of Reeves, who immediately froze up, his hollow eyes flying open wide like he'd been thrown in a cage with a live tiger.

"How about _Anakry,"_ the Joker purred, twisting his head to the side. "Whaddya reckon the chances are _he's_ spilled all the beans?"

"I—" Reeves faltered, tongue-tied because he still wouldn't turn on Roman when it mattered. The mob, the drugs, Hill, none of that mattered anymore. Daggett was dead, but his company lived on, and Roman still wanted to take down Wayne using Lonnie. Lonnie, who knew more about Harley and the Joker than anyone. That was all Roman had left, and it was the only reason he hadn't fled the city with his tail between his legs.

If Vicki did her job right, Wayne would know an attack was coming and stop it.

But Harley and the Joker still needed to get Lonnie back.

 _Then_ they could find out what Roman Sionis' entrails looked like.

"Whaddya know," the Joker drawled, poking Reeves in the chest with a sharp finger. "He's just a Black Mask _meat_ puppet like the others."

"Strange!" Reeves yelped, his voice cracking. "I can tell you about Dr Strange!"

"Dr Strange?" Pam stepped forward. " _Hugo_ Strange?"

Harley swung around to stare at Pam, who had thus far been a passive observer. Now she was obviously interested, her shoulders squared and green eyes blazing as she stared down at Reeves.

"Yes," Reeves gasped, breaking down into relieved sobs. "Roman had—had Daggett hire him. They kept his research on the poppy under wraps."

"And where is he now?" Pam pressed, her eyes bright, almost feverish. "Daggett's dead and can't cover for him anymore. What happens to Strange?"

"I don't know," Reeves sobbed openly.

"Is he in Gotham?" Pam demanded.

"I don't know," Reeves insisted, whining.

Pam swooped down and grabbed Reeves by the chin, forcing his head back so she could look him in the eye.

 _"_ _Where is Hugo Strange?"_ she hissed.

Reeves's eyes rolled back in his head as he twitched helplessly in Pam's hands, not a love-sick puppy, but a slack-jawed seizuring puddle of goo.

The air seemed to crackle with static electricity, and Harley felt the hairs on the back of her arms stand on end, her eyes widening at what she was seeing.

"I... don't... know," Reeves croaked, strangled like his soul was being forcibly ripped out of his body with each word.

Apparently convinced, Pam released Reeves and straightened back up to her full height, her lips puckering unhappily.

Ed was staring at Pam with something like cautious curiosity, and Harley knew she was doing a terrible job covering her own feelings. She ground her teeth, needing to get rid of Reeves and Ed so she could find out what Pam knew about Roman's chemist, Hugo Strange. Because it was all too clear she knew _something_.

Luckily, the Joker seemed to have a similar train of thought.

"Well, well, _well_ ," he purred, sidling up to Harley and squinting down at Reeves, who was staring at Pam with huge, horrified eyes, a widening wet patch appearing near the crotch of his trousers. "What're ya gonna do to him, Harl?" the Joker nudged Harley in the ribs.

She blinked hard, trying to shake off the trepidation rolling around her gut so she could concentrate.

Turning her full attention on Reeves, she took a deep breath to clear her head.

"I promised when I killed him I would make sure it was _slow_ ," Harley announced. "And painful… and _personal_."

Reeves swooned like he was going to faint.

Harley looked at the Joker, forcing a smirk. "Think you can handle that for me?"

"Hey, _Eddie_ ," the Joker drawled, somehow managing to sound both friendly and _exceptionally_ sinister. "I got a feeling this guy's gonna be… _squirmy_. Why don't you be a pal and uh, help me out, huh?"

"He _does_ look squirmy," Ed made a face when Reeves started to sob brokenly. " _Eww_ , have some dignity, huh?"

Reeves couldn't bring himself to walk so Frost dragged him instead, shuffling him into a small office at the corner of the warehouse floor while the Joker and Ed trailed behind.

"You might wanna take that nice jacket off, Eddie," the Joker advised, a second before the office door slammed shut.

Pam had her arms folded high over her chest, her mind obviously racing when she looked up at Harley.

"Sorry," she shrugged, distracted. "I didn't mean to like… take over your thing."

In the office, Reeves released a high-pitched wail of agony.

"So?" Harley spread her arms wide, the dread creeping back in no matter how she tried to push it away. "How do you know about Strange?"

Pam closed her eyes like she was trying to center herself, sighing before she finally met Harley's gaze.

"I spent like four months searching for the blue poppy last year," she explained, holding up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "I came _this_ close to finding it."

" _You_ went looking for the poppy _?"_ Harley's eyes widened.

"How could I not?" Pam scoffed. "I'm a fucking _botanist_ and a biochemist, Harley. Researching rare species of flora is what I _do_."

"Right," Harley agreed weakly. That _definitely_ wasn't all Pam did. "Why didn't you say anything when I told you Daggett was importing it?"

"Because you're in the middle of this epic battle of wills with Roman," Pam folded her arms defensively and looked away. "I didn't want to make it about me trying to get my hands on the poppy, not when you've been dealing with Crane doing the same thing."

"Pam, you are _nothing_ like Crane," Harley sighed, shaking her head. "So… what happened?"

Pam rolled her eyes. "Predictably, the League of Shadows wasn't easy to find."

"How the hell did you find out about the League of Shadows?" Harley was aghast, and Pam shot her a bemused look.

"You _told_ me," she chuckled at Harley's bewildered expression. "I guess it was after about ten margaritas on Sofia's birthday," she admitted slyly.

Harley covered her face with her hands, laughing as she remembered that night, or at least, the beginning of that night and the hangover she'd been blessed with the next day. Pam chuckled too, the tension between them easing.

In the small office, Reeves screamed again.

"Okay," Harley sighed, planting her fists on her hips, trying to focus. "So you got close to finding the League of Shadows?"

"I narrowed their headquarters down to this village on the border of Tibet and Nepal," Pam explained. "That's as far as I got. It was like hitting a brick wall, and I couldn't find a way in… but I _did_ find the name of another American who got through to them."

"Hugo Strange?" Harley guessed.

"Yes," Pam nodded. "I knew he was a doctor, so I assumed he was building on Crane's work with the poppy. But he was like a ghost, I couldn't find a trace of him, and eventually I gave up and moved on."

"He's a psychiatrist," Harley glanced over her shoulder when Reeves gave another horrible wail of pain that abruptly turned into a wet choking. "A psychiatrist currently out of a job, I guess."

Harley looked back at Pam, who was chewing her top lip thoughtfully.

"It's not important right now," she insisted, making Harley's eyebrows raise. "We should focus on Roman. You aren't really going to _negotiate_ with him, are you?"

"That depends on your definition of negotiating," Harley smirked. "If you mean beat him up until he hands over Anarky _,_ then yes, we'll be negotiating."

"Is _'Anarky'_ really worth waiting to kill this sadistic dickhead?" Pam asked flatly, using her fingers to make air quotes around Lonnie's pseudonym.

"Yeah, he's worth it," Harley admitted. "I can't _stand_ him, but he's worth it."

"Mm," Pam's lip curled, sympathizing with being forced to put up with annoying men.

The Joker and Ed chose that moment to sneak out of the office, the Joker smirking while Ed was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, talking fast. It seemed something of a _lesson_ had transpired.

"J was right," Ed beamed. "Reeves was _super_ squirmy."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves," Harley deadpanned, fighting back a smile.

Stupid Ed.

"You've got less than seven hours before you have to meet Roman," Pam pointed out. "Alexandra may have pulled back her thugs, but Roman will still have plenty of those BMW henchmen waiting to kill you or kidnap you. I can use Inception and…"

 _"_ _No,"_ Harley cut her off immediately. "We are not using Inception again."

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Ed waved his hand eagerly like he was waiting to be called on. "Oh, I have a _really_ good idea."

Harley laughed despite herself and gestured for Ed to continue.

"We need a _big_ distraction to shut down the whole island," he explained, his eyes glowing mischievously. "And I know just the anarchists who can give it to us."

* * *

Vicki spent the day in bed chain-smoking, trying to come up with a plan of action. One that would end with her alive, unincarcerated, and not in Harley Quinn _or_ the Batman's bad books. Ideally, with Roman Sionis behind bars, too.

A tall order, to be sure.

She let Bruce know she was ready to talk and agreed to meet him at his penthouse in Midtown.

Vicki didn't know what to expect from this 'talk,' including whether it would just be the two of them or if Dinah would be there too.

She listened to the radio to distract herself as she waited for it to get dark. The news of the day was about the protests that had erupted the night before outside Hill's inauguration party at Wayne Hall and had picked up again the first thing that morning out front of City Hall. From the sounds of it, they'd spread through Midtown over the course of the day with more people joining in, getting rowdier. And as evening approached, there was talk of violence—fireworks being set off at buildings, fights breaking out, shops being looted.

By nightfall, the police were using tear gas and rubber bullets as the protests began to evolve into riots, and citizens were being advised to stay in their homes. Advice Vicki was obviously not going to follow.

She threw on a light jacket and sneakers, tying her pale blond hair back in a greasy ponytail. Her hands were shaking from smoking too much and not eating enough as she found a hammer in the toolbox under her kitchen sink and smashed the Nokia phone she used to communicate with Harley to pieces. Then she scraped those pieces into a plastic bag, pulled a black Gotham Rogues baseball cap down over her eyes, and speed-walked two blocks to the University District's metro.

At the station, Vicki dumped the remains of the phone in a garbage bin, then swiped her MetroCard and climbed the stairs to the North-bound platform. She was thumbing out a text to let Bruce know she was on her way when a pair of heavy boots came stomping up the stairs behind her, accompanied by the sound of a radio squawking.

Goosebumps erupted on Vicki's arms and shoulders when she turned to find a pair of uniformed police officers at the top of the stairs, their expressions grim.

"Excuse us, ma'am!" one of them snapped, pushing past her as the train swept up to the platform, sending an old newspaper fluttering on a gust of wind.

Vicki's eyes widened as the graffiti-strewn metro screeched to a stop, both police officers drawing their weapons as the train doors flew open.

Three men came stumbling out, fists flying, screaming obscenities while the police attempted to intervene. Two of the men were wearing suits, looking sweaty and angry but otherwise uninjured. The third was young and scrawny with purple hair, his combat boots studded with metal spikes. By all appearances, he was the victim, his face swollen up and bleeding, but the cops threw him to the ground anyway, one of them forcing his arms behind his back while the suited men continued spitting threats.

Vicki stepped into the mostly empty carriage, her eyes lingering on the scene taking place on the platform, her sixth sense for a story suddenly tingling.

A few stops later, they passed through Downtown, and the carriage door slammed open so a group of people could march in. Some of them were punks or bikers like the man Vicki watched get arrested. Some wore ski masks and black bloc, and some were wearing clown masks. They swarmed the train carriage, chanting what sounded like a protest of Mayor Hill's election, making the few passengers sit up to attention.

Suspicion tickled the back of Vicki's neck as she watched the chanting people stomp through the carriage into the next one. She'd covered plenty of protests in her time, and there was often an underlying current of frustration or anger. But that current was already bubbling away at the surface; violent, intentional, _chaotic._

Vicki climbed off the metro at Wayne Tower, her thoughts now divided between the clown-masked protestors and 'talk' she was about to have with Bruce. The former took the lead when she reached the main thoroughfare of Wayne Station, where a line of police officers had cordoned off three of the four exits, herding commuters like cattle to the remaining exit and announcing the station was closing.

Vicki strode up to a uniformed officer with a bullhorn who was encouraging people to stay calm.

"What's going on?" she demanded, and when the officer didn't reply, she shoved her phone in his face like a microphone. "I'm Vicki Vale from the Gotham Globe," she announced. "Why are you closing the station?"

"Rioters," the cop informed her tartly, his eyes on the swelling crowd. "They're pissed Hill got elected, and they're lined up from the Flatiron Building all the way to City Hall."

"So you're shutting down public transport?" Vicki asked, her eyebrows raising, and the cop shot her a dubious look.

"You ever seen a full-blown riot, Ms Vale?" he countered. "People are capable of doing serious damage when they're desperate and angry. Now you better get home and lock your door."

He raised his bullhorn to demand people remain orderly, and Vicki lingered a moment longer before she slipped back into the crowd of nervous passengers.

It was only when she finally made it out of the station that she realized how thoroughly the protests had already devolved into riots, her eyes widening as a group of masked men squared off with cops in riot gear in the middle of the street. She had to force herself to look away, reminding herself she was there for a reason as she jogged down the block to the residential entrance of Wayne Tower.

Private security guarded the closed double doors, only letting her pass when she explained who she was and showed ID. Then in the lobby, she found a handful of nervous-looking porters and door attendants whispering together, one of them reluctantly peeling off from the group to let her into the private elevator to the Wayne Penthouse.

As the elevator doors closed, Vicki watched the doormen get louder and more anxious, one of them gesturing to the street outside.

"Are you kidding me, Frank?" he demanded angrily. "Hill doesn't give a shit about us—he's only working for the rich assholes who live upstairs."

The elevator doors closed before Vicki could hear anything else. She took a deep breath as the lift shot upwards, trying to focus on the imminent 'talk' instead of the riots.

There was no doubt in her mind Harley and the Joker were capable of inciting riots if they felt so inclined. The real question was why they had decided to light the match of discontent _today._

There was only one good answer—they were making their move on Roman, a realization that filled Vicki with a swarm of conflicting emotions. Hope, guilt, excitement, _horror_. Horror directed both at herself and for what was happening outside.

The elevator reached the penthouse with a cheerful _ding!_ , making Vicki's pulse leap in her throat. Her heart had been beating a nervous staccato all day, but it started pounding hard as the doors parted, revealing a palatial marble reception room decorated with delicate modern furniture.

Bruce and Dinah were waiting for her there. Bruce standing back, his arms folded, his face composed in a heavy frown while Dinah stood front and center with her hands planted on her hips. They were both wearing full-body suits made of a rubbery black material that looked like armor, confirming what Vicki already knew.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into an alley and scared you," Dinah greeted Vicki, looking only slightly sheepish.

"Um," Vicki glanced at Bruce as she stepped out of the elevator, distractedly taking note that he was not wearing his cape indoors. "That's okay?"

"It's not okay," Dinah sighed, deflating. "I know Harley has a way of getting under people's skin… making them think they owe her something, or need her. I know how hard it is to let go of her." She met Vicki's eye. "It's like she's eaten a part of your soul… and you have to fight to get it back and be yourself again."

Vicki's eyes widened, feeling like Dinah had just reached into her chest and untangled all the feelings she'd been wrestling with for a year, laying them out for her to see clearly.

"Yeah," she agreed quietly. "That's exactly what it's like."

"I used to work for her," Dinah admitted bitterly. "She did the same thing to me."

"Oh," Vicki blinked hard, taken aback by that revelation.

"Do you have any idea how to find them?" Bruce asked, not looking especially hopeful.

"No. We used to meet on a bench in the University District," Vicki explained, relieved she'd destroyed the phone. "One time she sent the Riddler to talk to me when she couldn't come herself."

"The Riddler?" Dinah exchanged a look with Bruce. "They're really working with the Riddler?"

"Yeah," Vicki nodded. "They kind of… teamed up to take on Roman together."

"Roman Sionis?" Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"Most people call him Black Mask," Vicki caught Bruce's eye. "He isn't just a businessman. He runs the mob, and he has fingers in just about every corner of Gotham society. And he's ambitious for more."

"Roman advises John Daggett," Bruce said to Dinah, who closed her eyes and sighed like she finally understood something.

"So this is all because Harley took it upon herself to decide who's in charge again," Dinah rolled her eyes, making Vicki bristle.

"Roman was _stalking_ Harley," she insisted. "He was trying to force her to work for him."

"Vicki," Dinah said patiently. "She told you that to manipulate you, she—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Vicki cut Dinah off irritably, knowing Dinah wasn't wrong but that she wasn't fully _right_ either. "She was scared. Genuinely scared, and I wanted to help her." She looked at Bruce again. "And I wanted to help you too. Roman is working with Daggett to take over Wayne Enterprises."

"John Daggett was found with a bullet in his head this morning," Dinah said coldly. "And his face cut like the Joker's."

Vicki pressed her lips together, searching for the flicker of horror she should have felt over a man losing his life.

But it wasn't there. Her empathy hit a wall for people who associated with Roman Sionis.

"Let's start with something easy," Dinah sighed. "Do you know the Riddler's name?"

"No," Vicki lied. Something told her Harley would appreciate her sharing as few _personal_ details as possible with the Batman and Black Canary. "Let me start from the beginning."

And Vicki did start at the beginning.

A highly editorialized version of it, at least.

* * *

Harley liked competent people. She liked _useful_ people. And she liked diabolical people with a good sense of fun. She wasn't sure when Ed started checking those boxes, but it was impossible to deny once he shared his vision for co-opting Alexandra Kosov's anarchist entourage to ratchet up the protests of Mayor Hill's election, thereby sending Gotham into a very _distracting_ spiral of anger and violence.

Pam pointed out that chaos and discontent among a group of rowdy anarchists was a good start, but with only seven hours until they met with Roman, they were going to need something extra to kick the malcontented citizens into action. Something to pull the rug out from under the police's feet. Something to make Roman's life—and his _escape—_ difficult. Something to nudge Gotham toward outright rioting and destruction _._

Something like a city-wide blackout.

Without Lonnie to help with technical matters—a _major_ inconvenience—it was agreed Pam would plant a bomb at the power plant north of the city, initiating a blackout on the main island of Gotham.

While Harley helped Pam track down the materials needed to build a homemade bomb, the Joker took Frost and Ed on a 'fishing trip' to find the most vicious and philosophically-aligned of Alexandra's thugs, and send them into Midtown to engage in some good old fashioned _sedition_.

It seemed Frost had been doing some recon of his own and knew exactly who they needed to speak to.

Seven hours later, Harley was sitting in the back of a thirty-year-old Jeep Cherokee parked beneath the east side of the Midtown bridge, staring at Gotham's glittering skyline across the river. She was half-listening to the radio rattle on about the riots raging out of control in the city center and half eavesdropping as the Joker and Ed gossiped about Alexandra's thugs.

Then across the river, the lights flickered at the top of Wayne Tower and the Flatiron Building, the city's tallest skyscrapers. The lights continued blinking for a moment, and then a wave of blackness washed over the city in one fell swoop.

"Spooky," Ed observed cheerfully, checking his warpaint in the rearview mirror before he started the Jeep's rattly engine.

Once they crossed the bridge into Midtown, it was immediately obvious how thoroughly Alexandra's thugs had whipped the city up into a flurry of chaos. Flaming police cruisers and clouds of tear gas, cops in riot gear facing off with rioting masked people, mounted police on horseback attempting to corral the angry mobs.

 _Chaos_.

The roads had been closed off, but Ed simply honked and plowed through the barricades into the crush of people. The crowd only grew thicker as they drew closer to the Flatiron, where a full mob had gathered, some of them chanting for Hill's head despite the cops pushing them back.

Ed laid his foot down on the gas, the Jeep wobbling as it nudged people aside, then rocking to a stop once they were close enough.

"Ooh, sorry!" Ed chirped out the window.

"Yer gonna need a good lawyer, Eddie," the Joker chuckled, accepting the shotgun Harley passed him before he kicked open his door.

"Fools and stubborn men make lawyers rich," Ed countered flirtatiously, hopping out of the Jeep. "That's what my Grannie says!" he added, having to shout as he shot his way through the crowd. "Outta the way! Outta the way! Come on, move it, ya filthy animals!"

Harley chuckled as she fired her shotgun indiscriminately into the mass of people. They screamed and scattered while the mounted officers' horses reared up on their back legs, whinnying anxiously.

Their painted faces made people jump out of the way as much as their guns, loaded with real bullets, not rubber ones. And as expected, once they'd forced their way to the skyscraper's gold-plated owner's entrance, four well-dressed Black Mask henchmen were waiting to escort them up to Falcone penthouse.

Ed and the Joker quickly took out Roman's thugs while Harley kept the mob back. It was impossible to tell who was intentionally inciting anarchy and who was just angry enough to buy a clown mask of their own accord. But all around them, chaos was thrumming as the citizens of Gotham gave into their anger, into their resentment, into their desire for vengeance against the city's corrupt establishment that didn't do a thing to help them.

It was _beautiful_.

An explosion rocked the street, sending glass spraying into the mob. Harley ducked and threw her hands over her ears, and when she lifted her head, it was just in time to see a flaming police cruiser crash into the side of the building opposite, distracting her long enough to allow a cop wielding a canister of mace in her path. Harley fired her last shell into his belly before he could set off the gas, then she rushed after Ed and the Joker over the bodies of Roman's thugs into the building.

The Joker was using a crowbar to pry the elevator doors apart while Ed stood back.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" he blurted, wrinkling his nose.

"You're the one who said the elevator would have enough power for one trip," Harley pointed out irritably. "If Roman still wants to talk, he'll be up there. And this elevator only goes to one floor."

The elevator doors creaked open with a reluctant groan, and the Joker stepped back, tossing the crowbar aside, and raking a hand through his green-stained hair before he gestured to Ed and Harley.

"Ladies first," he drawled.

Ed hesitated a moment before slipping between the narrow opening, and Harley followed with the Joker squeezing in behind her. There was a keypad beside the still-open doors, but before Harley could question how they were going to get past it, the gears in the ceiling creaked to life, and the elevator began to rise.

"And here... we... _go_ ," the Joker muttered to himself.

Harley couldn't tell if she was nervous or unnaturally calm, but her mind was bizarrely blank as they inched toward the penthouse. Her shoulders were tense, and her toes were curling, but try as she might to make a plan of action, to get excited, all she could do was stare numbly at her blurred reflection in the gold-plated doors. She was willingly walking into a trap, and she wasn't quite convinced she would come out of it alive. The dying part didn't bother her so much as the idea of Roman getting the upper hand again. But she wasn't scared, she didn't doubt herself—she was just annoyed and pissed off, and she _refused_ to let Roman slither away after all he'd done.

When they reached the top floor, there was a sad whirring sound in the ceiling as the emergency light shut off, indicating the last of the elevator's power had been used.

Harley hung back while the Joker and Ed squeezed through the narrow gap between the elevator doors. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, giving up the irritating _need_ for a plan, and reminding herself that she just needed to follow her instincts—to do what felt _right—_ and she would _win_.

She slid out of the elevator into a small reception room, which was pitch black without a light source, so dark she could barely make out Ed's tall frame in front of her.

"C'mon, kiddos," the Joker muttered, followed by the loud creak of the penthouse's heavy double doors opening.

Harley could immediately tell the penthouse was different, even in the darkness. The foyer floors had been marble before, but now they were wood, and instead of the lingering scent of Sofia's Chanel No 5, it stank of bleach and a cloyingly sweet vanilla-scented air freshener.

Someone had been murdered there not too long ago.

Harley could _smell_ it.

The foyer led into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Roman stood at the island in the middle of the kitchen, nursing a stemless glass of red wine, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows like he was winding down from a long day. There was no sign of Crane or any of the burly BMW bodyguards. From all appearances, Roman was alone.

"You're on time," he observed mildly, setting his glass on the counter.

Harley scoffed, but the Joker continued forward, running one gloved finger along the marble island until he was toe to toe with Roman, who stared back at him impassively.

"Hmm," the Joker purred, licking his scarred bottom lip with a serpentine flick of his tongue. "Looks like Black Mask has run out of _friends_."

"I still have friends," Roman countered blithely, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "You just killed some of my more helpful ones."

"Oh, we didn't kill _all_ of them," the Joker chuckled. "But they were _more_ than happy to turn on you when it counted," he added, leaning in close. "How's it feel, huh? Gettin' so _close_ only to realize... ya never had it at _all_."

Roman laughed softly, dismissively.

"We'd like Anarky back," Harley cut in. "If you don't make a _fuss_ about handing him over, I may be inclined to kill you a little bit faster."

Roman sighed and reached for his wine, then took two steps back so he was no longer in the Joker's shadow.

"I still need him," he admitted. "But I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement."

"An arrangement?" Harley laughed and pulled the gun holstered at her waist. "You're alone and unarmed. You have no men to protect you and no allies to give you power." She lifted an eyebrow. "You're not in a position to be making _arrangements_ , Roman."

"Mm," he agreed mildly, sighing again. He wandered over to a breakfast table surrounded by prettily-upholstered chairs and set his wine down. "I have to say… I'm impressed." He looked up at them. "By all of you."

"Um, I'm _pretty_ sure this is the part where you beg for your life," Ed wrinkled his nose. "Give it up, _sweetie_. Desperate isn't a good look."

Roman turned to stare out the window as a police helicopter shot past, its floodlights flashing and propellers beating noisily.

"Let me guess, Ed. The blackout was your idea." Roman looked at Harley and then the Joker, waving a finger between them. "And one of you had the idea to whip up these riots."

"Wrong," Harley sneered. "For someone with his own cult, you're not very good at reading people."

"My own _cult_?" Roman laughed incredulously and laid a hand over his heart. "Harley, all I ever did was give my close friends what they most desired. I was hoping to give _you_ what you wanted too."

"He's stalling," the Joker snarled, prompting Harley and Ed to exchange a look.

"What can I say," Roman shrugged helplessly. "It's become abundantly clear that all three of you are a liability."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Harley scowled.

"It means I've been going about this the wrong way," Roman explained patiently. "I admit, I was naive to think it would be as simple as having Alberto kill you. Then I was sure it would be a case of getting you to turn on one another." He sighed and caught Harley's eye across the dark room. "It only occurred to me recently that I need… a _specialist_ to help me."

"A _specialist_ ," Harley sneered.

"Yes," Roman offered her a smile. "I think a stint at Arkham Asylum might make you more inclined to our… _inevitable_ partnership, Harley." He glanced at the Joker. "And I believe the good people of Gotham are still eager to see you shipped off to Guantanamo Bay."

"What did you do," Harley narrowed her eyes.

"What any responsible homeowner does when an intruder breaks in," Roman shrugged. "I called the police just before you arrived. And we all know who pays close attention to the police scanners here in Gotham."

The Joker released an annoyed growl and Ed huffed indignantly, but Harley couldn't stop herself from laughing.

"You called the Batman on us?" she scoffed, pointing her gun at Roman's head. "You're pathetic," she spat.

The fact that they needed to get Lonnie back fled Harley's mind entirely, right along with the promise of the slow and painful death Roman deserved. She wanted to wipe the smug smirk off his face, preferably by blowing his head off with it.

Something hard and sticky hit the floor-to-ceiling window beside them, and Harley only had a second to register what she was seeing before the object released a vibration that shattered the plate glass. A loud gust of wind spiraled through the room like a vacuum, making Harley's hair whip around her face distractingly, and before she could pivot away from Roman to face this new threat, the Batman swooped in, his cape flapping around him as he rose to his full height.

Black Canary swung in on a cable behind him, heading straight for Harley. Her feet connected with Harley's chest, sending her flying across the kitchen and skidding across the floor. The back of her skull cracked against the wood, making her teeth rattle and her vision blur as she lay gasping on her back, trying to get her bearings. She heard the Joker snarl and the Batman grunt, and a crash of broken glass in the living room as they attacked each other. Then the meaty _smack_ of a fist hitting flesh in tandem with Ed yelping.

Harley kicked herself to feet and rushed forward as Black Canary punched Ed in the ribs, then spun around to throw her elbow into his gut. Ed gasped but reacted fast, hooking an arm around the Canary's neck and hauling her back against him. His elbow tightened around her throat, holding her in place as Harley swept in to deliver an _exceptionally_ satisfying right hook that made Black Canary's head snap to the side.

But before Harley could attack again, the Canary threw Ed over her shoulder, making him shriek in surprise before his back hit the floor. Harley ignored Ed's groaning, her attention firmly fixed on her opponent, who'd planted her feet, her arms raised in an attack pose Harley had seen her take many times before.

"You know, I almost _missed_ you," Harley quipped, dodging one blow and then another. She landed a pointless body shot that glanced off the Canary armor, making her knuckles sting.

"You shouldn't have come back," the Canary hissed, going for a roundhouse kick that Harley dodged, only to catch an uppercut, pain exploding across her jaw.

"That's funny," Harley panted, slipping right and left before she spun on her heel and kicked the Canary in the chest. "I remembered you being better at this!"

There was a crash in the living room, and Harley looked up to see Ed pulling a flat-screen television off the wall, followed by a pained roar when it landed on the Batman.

She almost laughed, but then the Canary pulled a foot-long baton from her tool belt, a taser issuing fissures of blue electricity.

" _Shit_ ," Harley hissed, bracing herself.

She was immediately on defense, her jaw set as she ducked and slipped, trying to avoid getting tased. She spotted her gun on the kitchen floor, but the taser caught her in the ribs before she could dive for it, making Harley cry out in surprise as a jolt of electricity raced through her body. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed on her belly, her face slack as she pawed at the floor, trying to push herself up before Black Canary could land another blow…

_PHWONGGG!_

The sound rang like a gong, making Harley's ears buzz. She rolled her head to the side to see Black Canary on the floor next to her, struggling to push herself to her hands and knees.

Ed stood over them, wielding a cast-iron skillet.

"That's Le Creuset, _bitch_!" he whooped, going in for a second attack.

The Canary recovered before he could hit her, hopping to her feet and swinging her taser at Ed's head. He shrieked and caught the blow with the skillet, which absorbed the current. She hesitated a moment, looking between Ed and the skillet, then lashed out at him again, and again, and again—but Ed caught each blow with the skillet like he was fencing while Harley watched from the floor, bewildered.

"Maybe find Roman!" Ed suggested, prompting Harley to shake her head and jump to her feet.

Weaponless, she rushed back into the darkened foyer where the light in the elevator was on again. Harley sprinted toward it, huffing in frustration when she found it empty. She started to turn back when a thin cord wrapped around her neck from behind, pulling tight before she could get her fingers beneath it.

Harley choked, her hands flying up to claw at the cord around her neck. Her attacker yanked her backward, making her stumble a few steps as the cord tightened, cutting off her access to air.

"I _really_ didn't want it to be like this," Roman hissed in her ear, making Harley's skin crawl. "I thought we could have something _special_."

Unadulterated _rage_ swept through Harley like a cyclone, overpowering her disgust and frustration. She threw her head back, slamming the sore, swollen spot at the back of her skull into Roman's chin. He grunted but didn't relent so she threw her head back again and again until she heard the satisfying _CRUNCH_ of his nose breaking against the back of her skull.

Roman made a surprised, pained sound, and Harley dug her feet into the floor, forcing him backward until he hit the wall. The cord was still tight around her throat as she bucked against him harder, fighting relentlessly for freedom, and when the back of her head connected with his broken nose again, he cried out indignantly and released her.

Harley spun around, catching Roman by the collar of his shirt before he could slither away. She scowled and punched him in the eye with all the strength she possessed, the urge to _crush_ him consuming her. Her knuckles split open as she hit him again, and again, until she was wildly pounding on his face with her fist, wishing she had something heavier, something that would cave his _skull_ in.

Roman spat a mouthful of blood in Harley's face, stunning her for a prolonged moment. She snarled and blinked it off, pulling back her fist to hit him again.

A gloved hand closed around her wrist, yanking her back, making her lose her grip on Roman.

Harley swung around to find herself face-to-face with Black Canary again. There was a long crack crossing her cowl, and her bottom lip was split and bleeding, her jaw tense as she panted hard through her nose.

She looked _pissed_.

Showing anything close to emotion was out of character for her. It made Harley hesitate, giving Black Canary an opening to headbutt her, not one of her usual skillful moves.

"Get out of here!" she snapped at Roman, who limped away silently.

"You don't know who he is!" Harley raged, pressing her hand to her aching forehead. "He's—"

But she was cut off when Black Canary backhanded her harshly, apparently ditching her refined skill set to take out some _feelings_ on Harley.

Harley's head snapped to the side, and blood filled her mouth, but by now, it wasn't enough to faze her. She let out a scream of fury and lurched forward without a plan of attack, her hands closing around Black Canary's throat. The suit released a fissure of electricity that Harley ignored, rushing her back into the kitchen and pinning her down on the marble island.

The Canary grabbed a pretty vase of flowers behind her and smashed them over Harley's head, water and flowers and broken glass spilling over both of them. Then she kneed Harley in the crotch, a dirty move that made Harley wheeze in surprise, and before she could recover, she was being forced backward. Her spine hit the stove at a painful angle, but she fought past it and snatched up an enamel kettle, slamming it against the side of Black Canary's head with a _CLANG!_

The Canary staggered back, disorientated, and Harley went for her throat again, shoving her back until they hit the wall beside the refrigerator and struggled there. She grabbed a handful of Harley's hair, yanking her head back and making Harley hiss in frustration and surprise.

 _Hair pulling_ was not usually this tiny vigilante's style.

Before Harley knew what was happening, Black Canary threw the fridge open, using her grip on Harley's hair to slam her face-first into the cold metal door.

Harley's eyes rolled back in her head, her entire face fuzzing in agony, blood gushing from her nose over her lips and down her chin. She had to lean against the wall to find the strength to push past it, aware that the Canary was barreling toward her again. She forced her eyes open and pushed away from the wall, meeting her head-on.

They struggled against one another futility, each of them indulging in more primal violence born from _resentment._ This fight was different from every other time they'd faced each other. Harley wasn't sure what had changed, but it felt like there was something _personal_ at play.

Then Harley saw an opening. She used a move Dinah taught her for immobilizing faster opponents, grabbing the Canary by both wrists and swinging her around, then getting a grip on the back of her neck before she slammed her face down on the marble counter.

The Canary gasped and wavered for a moment, too dazed to retaliate. Then she snatched up a bronzed fruit basket and spun around to crack Harley across the face with the bowl, splitting her forehead open.

Harley rocked back on her heels, feeling like her brain was sloshing around her skull as she tried to push through. Her forehead was split open, blood dripping into her eye, obscuring her vision. She was getting tired, multiple head wounds making her slow and sluggish. But she knew if she didn't pull it together, she would be admitted to Arkham by morning. If that happened, Roman would get away, and he might even be able to take her _with_ him. And that thought alone was enough to make Harley stumble forward to meet Black Canary again.

They grappled with each other's arms as they staggered around the kitchen, slamming each other into walls and counters. Harley wasn't capable of much more than that, a last-ditch effort at self-preservation. Then they edged too close to the smashed floor-to-ceiling window, the wind whistling dangerously as sixty-six floors of empty space threatened to swallow them whole.

Harley found another burst of strength and pushed forward, throwing the Canary onto the kitchen table. She pulled Harley with her, and the wood split under their combined weight, the table collapsing so they were thrown to the floor in a heap.

The Canary managed to get the upper hand as they rolled out of the debris, getting Harley on her back and pinning her briefly before Harley locked her knees around the Canary's hips and flipped her over, sitting on her stomach.

Then she spotted Ed, slumped against the wall a few feet away, unconscious, his hands bound behind his back. The skillet was lying on the floor between them, and Harley quickly scooped it up and swung it at Black Canary's head.

Her face snapped to the side, the crack in her Canary cowl growing longer, her eyes fluttering behind her mask.

The same righteous rage that took hold of Harley when she had Roman up against the wall pulsed through her now, making her vision blur and her heart pound. She lashed out with the skillet again, a frustrated scream ripping out of her throat as the cast iron connected with Black Canary's head.

Her cowl cracked in two, rubbery black fragments crumbling to the floor, revealing a young blonde girl beneath.

Harley froze completely, forgetting to breathe.

It was Dinah.

It was _her_ Dinah.

Dinah Drake was the Black Canary.

Harley still had the skillet raised, poised to strike again. But she couldn't move. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe. All the anger and frustration and physical pain drained away, leaving nothing but a cold numbness behind as a string of memories and moments flashed before her mind's eye. Meeting Dinah in the Narrows when she was a street rat with no family. Dinah teaching her karate. Dinah helping them plan bank robberies. Laughing with Dinah and Pam and Roxy. Dinah's droll wit, her excellent instincts, her iron will, her bravery, her loyalty.

Harley released a shuddering breath, feeling a swell of emotion she couldn't put a name to. Her eyes began to sting as she stared down at Dinah's bloodied face, trying to reconcile those memories with the masked vigilante she'd been playing cat-and-mouse with for almost a year.

Then behind her, there was an inhuman snarl—the Joker.

Feeling like she was moving through quicksand, Harley turned to look over her shoulder, realizing the constant smashing and grunting of the Joker and the Batman's fight had ceased. She blinked sluggishly, watching the Batman drag the Joker over to the open window. He was on his hands and knees, concussed and limp, one of his ears bleeding, conscious but struggling.

Then the Batman pulled a grappling hook from his toolbelt, preparing to leave.

Preparing to take the Joker with him.

Harley looked back down at Dinah, a girl she'd considered her friend. _Hers_ to protect. Her _sister._

The Joker grunted again, and Harley jumped to her feet, knowing what she needed to do to distract the Batman. She dropped the frying pan and ran toward the open window, each footfall lingering for seconds instead of moments as she picked up speed.

She caught the Joker's eye as she ran past him, and even though he was on hands and knees, struggling to stay awake, she still saw his eyes widen in one of those rare moments of surprise when he realized what she was about to do.

Harley turned back to the window, her pulse throbbing in her neck as her foot connected with the edge.

She jumped, and life immediately sped up, her dress and her hair whipping around her as she began to fall impossibly fast toward the street below.

* * *

**A/N: ….**

**So, clearly, Harley has some feelings about Dinah!**

**Also, "That's Le Creuset, bitch" might be the greatest thing I've ever written.**

**I mean, what a chapter, from the kinky sex to Dinah reveal to Harley jumping to possibly her death… (obviously not)**

**You guys, we only have 4 weeks left!**

**_Next: Riots, car chases, Pam's POV, Ed vs. Montoya, Joker 2019 Easter eggs, and more._ **

**Please comment & review - like really, please, lol. **

**xo**


	22. Chapter 22

_Theme: Blondie & Philip Glass - 'Heart of Glass' (Crabtree Remix) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/OqSF_mxP7vw)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/album/2Y5vNXUMERurhQevqafsSZ?si=AISnpbZ9Qku1cdle0Zl_cQ))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

22.

* * *

_Harley._

With a frustrated growl, the Joker lifted his head, barely registering the broken glass cutting into his palms. He blinked hard, registering Harley sitting on Black Canary, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, shellshocked beneath the blood running down her face, impossible to differentiate from her red warpaint. Something had _happened_.

Then she leaped to her feet, and she started _sprinting_ toward the open window.

The Joker caught her eye as she bolted past, and he realized she was about to take a gamble that might not pay off.

He could see _she_ wasn't sure if it would pay off either.

Then she jumped, her red dress flaring out behind her as she disappeared over the ledge into the night sky.

_Harley_.

The Joker bellowed her name, his voice ragged and inhuman like death itself, his heart slamming against his ribs, trying to chase after her.

He glared up at the Batman, who _hesitated,_ not throwing himself after her like he did for Rachel Dawes.

There was a long moment, a moment in which Harley got closer to crashing into the street below… and then _finally_ , the Batman released the Joker and dove after her.

The Joker scrambled over to the window, slapping one gloved hand down on a jagged shard of plate glass as he peered over the edge. A streak of red followed by a streak of black, both of them rapidly growing smaller as they fell to the earth.

If she hit the pavement from that height, there would be little more than a squishy puddle left of her.

She would be _gone_.

Breathing hard through his nose to clear his head, the Joker shoved himself to his feet with a strangled grunt. He immediately collapsed again, catching himself on the sofa and taking half a second to gather his strength before throwing himself forward, determined to get to Harley regardless of if she was alive or dead.

There was only one way out besides the main elevator, an escape route good ol' Don Falcone installed in his office.

_Harley. Harley_. _Harley Quinn._

Her name pounded through his veins in time with the beating of his heart. Loud, constant, relentless. _Just_ like her.

He lurched through the dark penthouse, a bad concussion and what felt like inner-ear damage making him stagger into walls to keep himself upright as he limped into Carmine's old office. Roman had already high-tailed it out of there, the bookcase standing open, the industrial elevator already gone. A few violent fantasies flashed before the Joker's mind's eye as he slapped the call button repeatedly, growling to himself until finally, the gears started to turn, the cables rotating to pull the elevator back up.

Each creak of the gears sounded like her name.

The pigs could have already scraped Harley off the sidewalk by now.

_Get her. Get her_.

The elevator arrived with a screech, and the Joker leaped in, shaking his head like a dog to push past the head trauma, slapping his buzzing ear, which he realized then was bleeding. Blood was streaming down the side of his neck, pooling in the lapel of his suit jacket.

He muttered impatiently to himself, blinking hard and rocking from foot to foot, slapping his ear as the elevator began to lower.

The lift hit the ground floor with a jarring thud, and the Joker lurched out into a long, concrete hallway. He swayed for a moment, getting his bearings, then chose a direction and loped down the tunnel, picking up speed as he embraced the all-encompassing need to _get to her_.

_Harley. Harley. Harley_ _Quinn_.

There was a fire exit at the end of the tunnel, just as Harley promised, and the Joker threw himself against it, bursting out into the humid summer night, and almost falling on his ass.

The air was thick with tear gas, and the street was empty aside from a handful of coughing stragglers. A few yards west, mounted officers were attempting to kettle a mob of rioters that had taken over a city block. Right about where Harley would have fallen.

The Joker swallowed thickly, the tear gas making his eyes stream, so the black greasepaint spiderwebbed down his cheeks. He tried to find an impulse, an urge, an inclination to point him in the right direction, whatever would _get him to her._

_Get her. Get her_.

A police cruiser covered in graffiti and missing its passenger door came wailing up the street toward him, its flashing blue and red lights cutting through the haze of tear gas as it screeched to a stop at the curb.

Frost leaned through the missing door, waving frantically.

"Get in, boss!" he shouted over the noise of the mob and the horses.

The Joker staggered forward, only just keeping up with the moment in front of him as he dove into the stolen cruiser and collapsed into the passenger seat. Frost whipped them around in a sharp U-turn, the car's bald tires squealing reluctantly before they took off up the street.

"Pigs got Harley," Frost announced, swerving around a horde of men in clown masks armed with baseball bats.

_Pigs got Harley._

Maybe it was the concussion or the eardrum damage, but it took a few long seconds for those words to sink in. The gory picture of Harley's bloodied remains was still flashing before the Joker's mind's eye, dragging him down, consuming him like quicksand. It was a blockade Frost's words had to struggle past. That she wasn't dead, she wasn't gone. Then like a fog slowly lifting, everything around the Joker suddenly solidified, becoming clear when he hadn't realized it was fuzzy in the first place.

He blinked hard, trying to keep up.

_"All units! All units! Requesting backup on 8th and Broadway!"_ a handheld police scanner duct-taped to the dashboard squawked. " _We need an escort to Blackgate Prison! All units!"_

_Get Her_.

The Joker braced his hands on his thighs, ignoring the nausea and dizziness spiraling through his body—accepting it, unfazed by it as they swerved around a mass of rioters tearing down a traffic light. He narrowed his eyes at the smokey road ahead, singularly focused on _Harley_ as they fishtailed onto Broadway, a broad avenue lined with luxury stores currently crackling with newly-lit fires.

Frost laid his foot down on the accelerator, his hands flexing on the steering wheel as they sped past protesters setting off fireworks at an armored car. This chaos, these _moments_ of truth, this was what the Joker _lived_ for. But when he spotted the flashing backlights of three GCPD cruisers racing south in tandem, everything else was pointless noise. There was _only_ Harley.

"There," he barked, envisioning her in the back of the middle cruiser.

Frost dutifully held his foot down on the gas, the speedometer ticking up higher and higher, the engine whining under stress.

"I got a little something in the back for ya, boss!" Frost shouted as they drew closer, with less than half a block between them.

The Joker swung around to squint into the backseat, where no less than a Bazooka and five high-explosive grenades were waiting for him among a cache of automatic weapons. He growled happily and wrestled the Bazooka into his lap, nearly cracking Frost in the head with it as he loaded a grenade.

The police escort transporting Harley pivoted east onto 14th, and Frost followed close behind, undeterred. The pigs knew they were being chased, quickly detouring off 14th onto Crowne in an attempt to shake their tail. There was less than half a block between them when the Joker heaved the Bazooka up on his shoulder and leaned out the side of the car to aim, the wind rushing in his face, nearly blinding him.

There was a _WOOSH!_ when the grenade launched, an arc of smoke streaming in its wake. It struck the police cruiser's back wheel on the right, followed by an explosion that made the entire street rattle. The cruiser flew up in the air, spinning twice horizontally before it crashed into the sidewalk, immediately bursting into flames.

_"Frost, where the fuck are you!"_ Red's voice crackled through the radio as they followed the two remaining cruisers east onto 22nd, where an entire department store was engulfed in flames. _"I'm on Swann! I just passed 21st!"_

Frost grabbed the radio while the Joker loaded a second grenade in focused silence, his resentment for Red background noise just like everything else.

"Alright, Pammy, they're heading your way on 22nd," Frost rumbled as the Joker slung himself out the side of the car again, aiming the Bazooka at the cruiser flanking the vehicle he was sure Harley was in.

He pulled the trigger, and a second grenade launched into the night, striking the cruiser's back windscreen. It burst into flames as the front tires flew up, and the car flipped over backward, landing upside down on its hood and skidding across the street, forcing Frost to swerve up onto the sidewalk to avoid it.

There was only one cruiser left, and Harley was inside it. The Joker was sure of it. He dove into the back seat again, scrabbling through the collection of firearms until he found a sub-machine that would do the job nicely. He braced one hand on the roof to steady himself and hung his torso out the side of the car, his eyes narrowing as he aimed for the cruiser's tires.

The car swerved right and left, dodging the bullets spitting into the asphalt behind it, allowing Frost to draw closer.

They were about to speed through a massive intersection when a fire engine engulfed in flames crashed past an office block on the corner, nearly clipping the back of the cruiser carrying Harley as it crossed into the intersection. Frost slammed on the brakes to stop them crashing headlong into the fire engine, and they fishtailed in a semicircle before rocking to a sudden stop.

The Joker leaped out of the car without a second's thought, loping forward with the gun hanging loose in his hand. He dodged around the flaming fire truck, taking no notice of the clowns lighting Molotov cocktails off the blaze when he spotted the cruiser with Harley speeding away. Scowling, he raised the rifle again, a last-ditch effort to stop it, when an ambulance came roaring into the intersection impossibly fast, its lights flashing and sirens screaming.

The ambulance T-boned the cruiser, sending it spinning wildly out of control.

And when the battered vehicle finally screeched to a stop, a mob of clowns and protesters armed with bats and tire irons immediately swarmed it.

The Joker stopped short, taking a moment to drink in the carnage, his eyes darting between the ambulance and the battered cruiser, the blaze from the fire truck bathing everything in a dangerous orange glow.

Then he bolted forward into the fray.

* * *

Pam knew she was most effective in a behind the scenes capacity, and she was well aware that Harley preferred it that way to keep her _safe_. Infiltrating the power plant and depositing their hastily-made bomb was a breeze, almost what you might call too easy. But unlike Harley, Pam did not complain when something was easy, and she certainly didn't seek out violence or confrontation for fun.

No judgment, obviously.

But as Pam drove back to Gotham, the idea of heading straight to the rendezvous point began to make her feel like a coward, one thing she abso-fucking-lutely was not.

The presenters on Gotham City Radio reported the looting and arson taking place in Midtown and Downtown, turning the city into a dystopian hellscape the police were ill-equipped to handle.

Pam thought about Harley going off on her half-cocked mission with only the Joker and Ed for backup. Their plan to get this 'Anarky' character back via Roman felt slapdash at best, and when Pam pointed this out, Harley explained slapdash methods were the best kind of plans.

Well, _that_ wasn't true, and Pam knew this aversion to well thought out plans was the Joker's influence rearing its ugly head again. Harley was well-organized and strategy-orientated, but she chose to believe giving into chaos and destruction was a better means of achieving her ends for some godforsaken reason.

Pam pulled off the freeway in Otisburg, determined to help whether Harley wanted it or not. But when she reached the North Gotham tunnel that led under the West River, she was stopped by a police barricade. Usually, this wouldn't be a problem. All it would take was a brief connection to convince an officer or two that they needed to let her pass.

"Hi there," Pam beamed up at the cop guarding the barricade as cars full of panicking citizens streamed out of the tunnel. He was wearing SWAT gear that covered him from head to toe, only his eyes and mouth visible behind the helmet—no flesh for her to touch to bend him to her will.

_Fuck._

"Authorized personnel only, ma'am," the officer informed her coldly. "You're going to have to turn around."

"Fine," Pam agreed sourly, rolling up her window.

She drove aimlessly for a good twenty minutes, trying to find a creative solution like Harley would instead of relying on her abilities. Briefly, she considered lobbing the perfume bottle at the SWAT team, turning all of them into lovesick puppies so she could pass through unobstructed. There was more stored in a vault in Geneva that _may_ or may not have had historical connections to The Third Reich.

Pam slowed down as she drove past Otisburg General Hospital, an idea coming to her. She pulled the little Nisson into the hospital's visitor lot and parked in a disabled spot, guaranteeing the car would be towed. Then she wiped her fingerprints from the steering wheel and gear shift and slid out of the car, keeping her head down so the CCTV cameras perched at the hospital's entrances would miss her face.

It was hardly a slow day for Gotham's hospitals, but there was still one ambulance waiting with two grim-faced EMTs standing beside it; a middle-aged woman with stringy blonde hair and a younger man, talking with their heads close together.

"Hey there," Pam greeted them cheerfully. She offered her hand to the younger EMT. "I'm Evelyn Rose from the board of trustees," she explained, prompting the man to shake her hand.

Pam felt her palm grow warm, and the EMT's face swiftly melted into a lovesick grin.

"Go home. Forget my face," Pam instructed him, releasing his hand and their connection.

"Of course, Ms Rose," he agreed, immediately spinning away to follow her order.

"Hang on, what are you—" the female EMT started to protest.

Pam's hand shot up to close around the woman's throat, making her gag as her eyes widened, then immediately softened when the connection solidified.

"Get in the back," Pam instructed her coldly, releasing the woman's neck but not letting go. She flexed her fingers, feeling the heat racing around palm like a thousand blinking lights.

Obedient and chipper, the female EMT opened the ambulance's back door and hopped inside, smiling as she followed Pam's instructions.

They were always happier when Pam was in control.

Every time, without fail.

Pam joined the woman in the ambulance and pulled the door shut, then checked her Casio watch.

Five minutes until the bomb at the power plant went off, and the city would succumb to darkness and chaos.

Pam looked down at the badge displaying the EMT's name pinned to her dark green jumpsuit.

P Fleck.

"P?" Pam raised an eyebrow at her.

"Penny," the woman beamed.

"Is there a camera in here, Penny?" Pam asked, and Penny happily shook her head 'no.' "Give me your clothes," Pam ordered, setting her bag on the floor before she kicked off her flats and unbuttoned her jeans.

Penny did as Pam instructed, toeing off her clunky black boots and shuffling out of her uniform before handing it over. Pam zipped the jumpsuit up over her camisole and shoved her feet into the clunky too-small boots, then transferred the contents of her bag— some cash, Lee's old BlackBerry, the handgun Harley demanded she take despite Pam's aversion to guns—into the canvas jumpsuit's pockets.

Then she turned her attention to Penny, who was waiting patiently in her socks and underwear.

Letting her run off like this would not be discrete.

Outside, there was a loud, whirring sound as the hospital's generator turned on.

The power was out, and it was time to go.

"Stay here," Pam ordered.

Penny eagerly nodded as Pam jumped back out of the ambulance, slamming the doors shut, and circling to the driver's seat. She slid behind the wheel and examined the unfamiliar dashboard covered in mysterious buttons, switches, and a radio.

"Fuck's sake," she muttered, pursing her lips as she turned the key in the ignition and worked out how to turn on the headlights. She checked her mirrors before pulling out of the emergency exit, wincing when the bottom of the ambulance scraped over a speed bump. Then she headed back to the police barricade at the North Gotham Tunnel, determined to make herself useful to Harley.

"Hey there," she greeted the cop guarding the onramp to the tunnel.

"Where's your partner?" he asked, squinting at the empty passenger seat.

"We're a little short staffed right now," Pam improvised, shooting the cop a knowing look.

"Don't I know it," he agreed ruefully. "You're gonna want to get those lights and sirens on," he advised while his colleagues moved the barrier so Pam could pass through.

"Thanks, um, buddy," she saluted the cop awkwardly, then pulled forward onto the onramp, wincing again when the heavy back of the ambulance ground against concrete.

With the power cut off, the tunnel was pitch black, the ambulance's headlights the only light source. Twenty minutes earlier, there had been cars packed with people trying to get the hell out of Gotham through this tunnel, but they'd since been cut off, trapped in the violent riots ravaging the city. And when Pam finally emerged from the tunnel Uptown, she was greeted with those cars full of desperate civilians, honking irritably and getting out to complain and rage at the officers blocking their path.

"Fuuuuuck," Pam murmured, staring out the window as she drove past them.

It was another riot waiting to happen. _Chaos_.

Without a plan of action, Pam pulled out the old Blackberry and found Jonny Frost's number, hoping to get an update.

"Hey there, Pammy!" Frost greeted her, sounding strained.

In the background, Pam heard the rattle of machine-gun fire and tires squealing, making her eyes widen.

"Imma little busy right now!" Frost added before shouting instructions to someone else.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Pam demanded, tightening her grip on the wheel as she sped south.

There was an explosion that made the phone fuzz before Frost replied.

"Sounds like the pigs got Harley!" he shouted into the phone. "We got a guy saying they're takin' her to Blackgate for safe keepin'. Think you can help me out with this one, Pammy? While I find the boss and Ed?"

Pam found herself uncharacteristically speechless.

Save Harley from the police?

Possibly break her out of Blackgate Prison, a _fortress_ on an _island?_

Firefights and car chases were decidedly _not_ Pam's style, but there were few—none, actually—people she cared about like she did Harley.

"Okay, I'm coming now!" Pam agreed, her heart beating a little harder in her chest. "I stole an ambulance! I'm almost to Robinson Park."

"Alright, Pammy, those things should have radios!" Frost shouted over squealing tires and another explosion. "Tune into 84.4—it ain't safe to be on the phone."

Remembering what Harley said about the Batman's advanced tech and how the Joker was currently missing his hacker friend 'Anarky,' Pam rolled down her window and threw the Blackberry out in the street. She turned the radio to 84.4 and flipped on the ambulance's flashing lights and sirens, her jaw set in grim determination as she sped south toward Midtown.

" _Pammy, you there?"_ Frost's voice crackled through the radio.

Pam scrambled to grab the receiver, the ambulance swerving when she lost her grip on the wheel.

"Yes!" she snapped.

" _I see the boss,"_ Frost announced. " _I'm gonna grab him and head south to help ya."_

"Okay!" Pam agreed, nervous energy suddenly racing through her, making her hands shake and her stomach twist.

The rioting grew more violent and destructive as the ambulance drew closer to the city center. Buildings on fire, store-fronts smashed, cars turned over, and people fighting in the street. The fires were the only source of illumination, tear gas oppressively thick in the air.

Pam released a shaky breath as she ducked down to check the passing street names, keeping her heavy-booted foot pressed firmly on the accelerator. She swore furiously when she realized she didn't know what the hell she was even looking for, let alone how she was supposed to stop Harley from being taken to Blackgate.

Then a few streets over, there was a blast that made her heart flutter frantically in her throat, the streets quaking and the ambulance rattling around her.

She grabbed the radio again.

_"Frost!_ Where the fuck are you!" Pam demanded. "I'm on Swann. I just passed 21st street!"

The radio crackled with white noise for a few long seconds before Frost responded.

_"Alright, Pammy, they're heading your way on 22nd_ ," he informed her, the implicit instruction that it was up to _Pam_ to stop them.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Pam chanted, spinning the wheel hard to the left when she nearly missed 22nd.

The ambulance's heavy back end swung out, the tires skidding on the sharp turn, nearly rolling the entire vehicle over as Pam clenched her teeth and focused on the smoke-filled road ahead. Once the ambulance righted itself, she stomped down on the gas again, searching the street for some sign of the police cruisers transporting Harley, though how she was supposed to _stop_ them, she had no idea.

Then, less than half a block ahead of her, a fire truck engulfed in flames sped across a major intersection, crashing into the corner of an office block.

Pam sucked in a startled breath, fear and adrenaline racing through her in equal measure, making her light headed when she saw a cruiser zip past the fire truck. It crossed into the massive intersection with its lights flashing and sirens screaming.

That was the car. Pam _knew_ it.

She tightened her hands around the steering wheel, giving in to whatever madness had taken hold of the city, giving into the chaos that hardly made sense to her. Her blood roared in her ears as she held her foot down on the gas and braced herself, crossing into the intersection and intercepting the cruiser carrying Harley.

The ambulance crashed into the side of the smaller car, the violent crunch of metal and shattering glass fighting to be heard over the noise of the riots. The impact sent the cruiser into a careening tailspin, its tires squealing helplessly as the driver lost control.

Pam's airbag deployed, smacking her in the face and nearly knocking her out as the ambulance rocked to a sudden stop.

Her head was pounding, and her ears were ringing. Pam blinked sleepily, trying to see, but everything was black and hazy. She took a shaky breath, the sounds of a chaotic mob descending growing louder, cutting through the ringing in her ears. The urge to lay there and wait for help was almost overwhelming, but Pam forced her eyes open instead, blinking hard as the airbag beneath her head deflated. She took another deep breath and counted to five, then pulled herself up, her head swimming as she peered through the ambulance's cracked windscreen, and tried to come to terms with the scene taking place in front of her.

Upwards of fifty people wearing clown masks had rushed the battered police cruiser. They were jostling it violently, each of them trying to get closer, their desire for violence as thick as the smoke in the air. They were going to rip the officers inside apart limb from limb, and the subsequent gunshots from the cruiser told Pam those cops believed that to be the case too.

Pam pulled off her seatbelt sluggishly, reminding herself of all the times she'd seen Harley get back on her feet, beaten and bruised, but relentless. She kicked open her door with a grunt and hauled herself up so she was leaning against it, half hanging out of the ambulance as she stared blindly at the chaos unfolding in front of her.

There were more gunshots from inside the cruiser when the clowns smashed the back windows, which was the exact moment Pam spotted the Joker fighting his way through the mob, a smear of purple and green in a sea of black.

"J!" Pam screamed, waving her arms as hope zig-zagged through her. _"J! J!"_

He swung around to look at her, his white face standing out among the expressionless clown masks packed around him, his black eyes blazing with raw emotion that made Pam's pulse leap.

Then suddenly, Harley's silvery-blonde head appeared above the mob of clowns, followed by her red dress and white boots as they pulled her out of the back of the cruiser.

Something deep in Pam's soul shivered as she watched them lift Harley's limp body, passing her over their heads like she was something precious to be preserved in a sea of destruction. A huge clown jumped onto the battered cruiser's hood, and the other clowns passed Harley into his arms. He straightened up to his full height and held her up, and the mob of clowns roared their approval, raising their makeshift weapons as Harley's head flopped back, her bloodied, painted face glowing in the light of the orange flames licking the buildings around them.

"Shit," Pam whispered, unsure what she was seeing, unsure what this _meant_.

She forced herself to look away to search out the Joker and saw he'd fought his way to the hood of the cruiser, his hands braced on the dented metal as he prepared to jump up and take Harley back.

A gunshot rang out, but this one didn't come from the inside of the cruiser.

The giant clown holding Harley collapsed as a bullet ripped through his head, killing him instantly.

There was a mad scramble over Harley's body, and automatic gunfire rattled through the horde of clowns, clearing a path for someone new. Pam spotted a pair of men hurrying away, Harley slumped over one of their shoulders, and Pam scrambled in the pocket of the EMT jumpsuit for the gun. Her hands shook as she turned off the safety and aimed it at their retreating backs, getting one shot off. But it was too late; they were already ducking into a BMW with Harley in tow, speeding off into the dark city.

The Joker was on the cruiser's hood, frantically looking right and left, trying to find Harley. Pam watched him bare his teeth and snarl like a wild animal as the remaining clowns cheered for him like an exalted leader.

"J!" she screamed again, desperately waving him over. "J!"

The Joker looked up sharply, his expression inscrutable. He lifted an automatic rifle and shot into the crowd of cheering clowns, clearing a path for himself as he jumped off the cruiser's hood.

Feeling dizzy and sick, Pam slid back behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, a burst of adrenaline giving her the strength to push through.

After a few false starts, the engine hummed to life just as the Joker threw himself into the passenger seat, his eyes so wild Pam shrank back from him.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here!" he demanded, his voice a threatening snarl that made Pam's skin crawl.

"Saving _your_ fucking ass, apparently!" she shot back. "And—"

" _Drive_ ," he scowled, quietly but with such malice that Pam slammed her foot down on the gas without thinking twice. The battered ambulance flew forward out of the intersection, following the BMW the thugs had folded Harley into.

"I think Roman's guys got her," Pam croaked, her eyes darting between the road and the Joker. His shoulders were rising and falling sharply as he sucked in deep breaths, his eyes focused on the smokey street ahead with a terrifying intensity. "They were in a BMW."

"Yep," he agreed crisply, blinking hard and hunching forward.

"You think they're going east?" Pam demanded, and when he didn't respond, she scowled in frustration. "Are you just gonna fucking _sit there_ or at least _try_ to be helpful!"

Her voice leaped a few octaves, and he swung around to glare at her, his eyes two fathomless black pits as he released a low, throaty growl that reminded Pam of a prowling tiger.

She ignored him, focusing on the road and breathing deeply in a futile attempt to calm her racing heart. And then she saw it—the only other functioning car on the street lined with burnt-out vehicles. The back of a sleek BMW sedan, driving the speed limit as if they were trying to blend in.

"There," the Joker snapped, pointing a gloved finger.

Pam downshifted, urging the ambulance closer.

The BMW immediately sped up, its driver realizing their ambulance was in pursuit and probably guessing who was inside.

"The bridges will be up by now," Pam pointed out shakily, glancing at the Joker as he shrugged out of his absurd purple blazer and rolled his shoulders back. He raised the automatic rifle he'd brought with him and broke the window instead of taking time to roll it down. "What the fuck!" Pam snapped.

But the Joker just brushed aside a few shards of broken glass and hauled himself out, aiming the rifle at the back of the BMW and shooting at the tires.

The BMW immediately swerved right, bouncing onto the onramp to lower-5th, the always-under-construction tunnel that passed through Downtown.

Pam yanked the wheel hard to the right to follow them, whipping the ambulance onto lower 5th, its heavy back end squealing as it swerved wildly.

" _Closer_ ," the Joker snapped raggedly, his voice barely audible out the window.

Pam ground her teeth and held her foot down on the gas, willing the ambulance to move faster while the Joker fired a relentless stream of bullets into the asphalt behind the BMW ahead of them. It forced the driver to swerve to avoid getting hit, slowing them down so the ambulance could draw closer.

A second BMW zoomed down the onramp ahead of them, pulling in between the ambulance and the car carrying Harley. Pam shot the Joker a sidelong look, her heart thundering in her chest as she watched him pull a fresh magazine from his pocket. Then in front of them, one of Roman's henchmen appeared through the new BMW's sunroof, armed with a bigger, meaner looking version of the rifle the Joker was carrying.

"J," Pam warned just before the new henchmen started shooting at them, the rattle of bullets hitting the front of the ambulance making her heart stutter. "Do something!" she yelped as a few stray bullets hit the already-cracked windshield.

The Joker slapped the new magazine in and silently threaded his head and shoulders out through the window again, his face completely blank as he put a string of bullets into the henchmen shooting at them. The man's body flopped back against the BMW's roof, hanging there perilously until the Joker took out both of the BMW's back tires. The car swerved violently when the driver lost control, crashing into the tunnel wall.

"Christ!" Pam shrieked as the Joker fell back in the car and raked his sweaty hair off his face. "You couldn't have done that sooner?" she demanded, to which she received an annoyed scowl.

Before Pam could retort, a third BMW raced down the next onramp, cutting them off and forcing Pam to swerve out of the way, again letting the car carrying Harley get farther away. The new BMW veered left into the other lane, and when Pam pulled up alongside them, another burly henchman popped out of the sunroof, so close she could almost catch his eye.

The henchman started shooting at them, bullets ripping through the side of the ambulance and Pam's door, shattering her window.

She spun the wheel hard to the right until they grazed the tunnel wall, the screech of metal grinding against concrete ear-splitting. But the rattle of bullets didn't stop, and just as Pam managed to even them out, one tore past her arm. She yelped in surprise, white-hot pain blinding her, but she reacted faster than she knew she was capable of moving.

She released the wheel and whipped out the gun stashed in her pocket, firing four rounds and hitting the henchman in the neck. Without her hands on the wheel, the ambulance went careening across the tunnel again, prompting the Joker to grab the wheel.

"Shoot the driver!" he barked gruffly, spinning the wheel left so they slammed up against the BMW, forcing it up against the tunnel wall and keeping it there as they raced toward the end of the tunnel.

Pam ground her teeth to push past the acute, overwhelming pain in her arm as she awkwardly fired the last of her bullets into the BMW's passenger window while the Joker held the wheel. He was close enough that she could smell him—gunpowder, smoke, blood, tobacco, a disgusting combination that made her want to vomit. But then BMW's passenger window shattered, and the car lurched to a sudden stop, falling behind as the ambulance sped forward, catching up to the vehicle with Harley as they neared the end of the tunnel.

"What the fuck do we do now!" Pam demanded her voice emotional and shaky as she took back the wheel with one hand. She glanced down at her left arm, uncertain how bad it was, but the entire left sleeve of the EMT jumpsuit was rapidly becoming soaked in blood.

The Joker flopped back in his seat and raked his hair off his face, then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, staring at the back of the BMW like he was deep in thought. He was out of bullets, but hopefully not ideas.

Pam couldn't have told you what was going through his mind, but she got the distinct impression that he was _willing_ something to happen. As if the sheer force of his determination to get Harley back would be enough to give them an opening.

"J, what the fuck do we do!" Pam snapped impatiently.

He sighed through his nose and narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything.

The wailing of police sirens suddenly filled the tunnel, and Pam swore furiously when she saw two cruisers pull up behind them, their lights flashing.

"Keep going," the Joker snapped at her as if a little something like having the cops on their tail while they were unarmed in a busted up ambulance on its last legs wasn't something to worry about. "You got your voodoo," he added bitterly. "Those pigs ain't takin' you alive."

"How do we stop them?" Pam demanded, but the Joker didn't reply. He _was_ out of ideas, Pam realized. " _Fuck_ ," she hissed, following the BMW out of the tunnel where it let out near Gotham Harbor.

They raced along the East River, coming up to the Downtown Tunnel to the Eastside. In the distance, Pam could see they were starting to raise the bridges, the ones connecting Uptown and Midtown to the Eastside already half-way into the night sky.

"They're gonna take her to him," the Joker predicted darkly, his eyes still on the back of the BMW.

"And how the fuck do you suggest we stop them?" Pam spat, looking between the Joker and the road, bewildered by his behavior.

"We don't," he replied crisply. " _Harley_ can look after herself."

Pam nearly screamed in frustration.

"What the fuck does that mean!" she snapped.

"Whadya think _she'd_ want, huh?" the Joker shot back impatiently. "She's sick of hiding from that piece of shit, and she doesn't need to be fuckin' _saved_. She needs _backup_."

"Backup," Pam huffed incredulously, watching the BMW turn into the Downtown tunnel. She prepared to follow them when the Joker stopped her.

"No," he said quietly, the sirens from the cruisers chasing them nearly drowning him out. "We'll find her," he added darkly. "Take the bridge."

"You better be right," Pam seethed, allowing the BMW to peel off without following. "What do we do about those guys?" she asked, glancing in the rearview mirror at their pursuers.

A smirk spread across the Joker's butchered face, and he shifted around to pull something out of his back pocket, holding it up for Pam to see.

A grenade.

Pam's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're just carrying that thing around!"

He chuckled throatily and shot Pam a knowing look.

"Harley said _exactly_ the same thing once," he informed her smugly. "Take the bridge," he said again, almost lazily, and slumped back in his seat.

Pam eyed him warily but turned toward the Downtown Bridge nonetheless. There was a police barricade guarded by more cops in riot gear, and when she glanced at the Joker again, he was leaning forward, tonguing the scar splitting his bottom lip as he palmed the grenade.

Pam took a deep breath, praying the ambulance would make it as she sped toward the barricade.

The Joker pulled the pin on the grenade, and Pam braced herself when he lobbed it out the window. The blast lifted the ambulance's front wheels off the ground, making Pam's heart flutter wildly in her chest while her ears rang like church bells. The wheels slammed back down just as they drove through the remains of the explosion, dust, and smoke filling the ambulance, making Pam choke.

" _Very_ good, Red," the Joker drawled resentfully.

Pam shot him a dirty look, coughing as they sped over the bridge, the cruisers falling back, letting them go.

* * *

It had been nearly an hour since Bruce and Dinah—since the _Batman_ and _Black Canary—_ left Vicki upon learning Gotham's three most-wanted terrorists were spotted at Roman Sionis' penthouse.

Alone and submerged in almost complete darkness apart from what illumination the fireplace granted, there was little else for Vicki to do but pace and scroll through social media, searching for answers as to what was happening outside. Occasionally, she would sneak whiskey off the bar cart, or more unproductively, peer out the window at the chaos in the streets below, lit only by flames and the floodlights of police helicopters glancing off clouds of smoke.

After another prolonged bout of pacing, Vicki forced herself to sit on the couch, sighing as she scanned Arturo Rodriguez's live-streams. He was trying to speak to the masked men and women engaging in violent civil disobedience, but they weren't interested in talking to him.

Vicki had a lot weighing on her mind at the moment, but watching Arturo reporting from the streets managed to make her feel even worse. Here she was hiding out in her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's penthouse instead of doing her _job_.

The job she seemed to have lost touch with somewhere along the way.

She was considering dipping into the whisky again when the balcony doors banged open, a gust of wind sweeping into the sitting room. Vicki jumped to her feet, her eyes widening when the Batman appeared beside the helipad outside, his cape flapping around him, an unconscious Dinah in his arms.

Her mask was gone.

"What-what happened?" Vicki stammered, watching Bruce stomp into the penthouse and lower Dinah onto the couch beside the fireplace. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, a goose-egg sized lump already appearing near her hairline.

"Harley and the Riddler are in custody," Bruce grunted, his shoulders rising and falling like he was out of breath. "The Joker got away."

"What about Roman?" Vicki demanded, but Bruce shook his head.

"He can wait," he rumbled. "I need to find the Joker. He'll come for Harley."

Vicki bit her tongue, knowing she wasn't in a position to protest about who was the more dangerous rogue. She'd been as honest as she'd felt capable of being with Bruce and Dinah, telling them everything about Roman, Dagget, Hill, the blue poppies, and BO… But that honesty excluded a few critical facts beyond the Riddler's real name. Namely, Knox's murder and Vicki agreeing to sneak Harley Quinn and the Joker into Wayne Manor, along with the more personal details she was sure Harley would want Vicki to keep to herself.

"What are you going to do?" Vicki asked warily.

"The Riddler's at the MCU," Bruce grunted. "He'll give up the Joker. Harley won't."

Vicki was about to counter that she wasn't sure that strategy would work when Dinah started to wake up, her head bobbing against the couch cushion.

Bruce caught Vicki's eye.

"Keep an eye on her," he rasped, an order.

Vicki searched for Bruce behind the Batman's cowl, but she couldn't find any of the softness she knew Bruce to be capable of. There was only a cold determination to be effective.

And regret about trusting her, she suspected.

"Alright," Vicki agreed somberly.

Bruce nodded, lingering a moment longer before he turned and stomped back out to the balcony. He stood on the ledge, a current rippling through his cape, pulling it taught before he dove forward, over the edge.

Vicki released a long breath and looked down at Dinah, whose eyelids were fluttering weakly. It looked like someone had beaten her over the head with something heavy, and Vicki needed very few guesses to figure out who was responsible.

She grabbed a linen napkin off the bar cart and dunked it in a silver bucket of melted ice, then lowered herself onto the couch.

"Dinah," Vicki brushed a few sweaty strands of ashy blonde hair off her forehead.

Dinah lurched up, pitching forward and vomiting onto the marble floor. Vicki winced and gave her space to empty her stomach, patting her back in an awkward show of comfort. But she quickly got distracted by the feeling of Dinah's armor under her fingertips. It wasn't solid like she'd expected but made of shifting plates of rough kevlar-like material covered in what felt like latex.

Dinah turned to look at Vicki over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, and Vicki quickly pulled her hand away.

"Sorry," she muttered, feeling chastised, and handed over the damp cloth.

"What happened," Dinah croaked, wincing as she dabbed at her forehead, her elbow braced in her thigh to keep herself upright.

Even in the dim glow of the fireplace, Vicki could see Dinah was pale and sweaty, her bottom lip split and swollen, her head still bleeding, her pupils blown wide. She was definitely suffering a concussion.

"Uh… I'm not sure," Vicki admitted uneasily. "Bruce said the cops have Harley and the Riddler. He carried you back…."

Dinah nodded silently, her breathing rattly. She braced both her elbows on her knees and stared at the floor.

"I think you have a concussion," Vicki added, to which Dinah laughed bitterly.

"I'll be fine." She took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Harley saw my face."

_"_ Shit _,"_ Vicki's eyes widened. "Well… what does that mean?"

"I don't know," Dinah shook her head.

"Did Roman get away?" Vicki pressed. "Bruce didn't say…"

Dinah turned around to look at Vicki squarely, her expression incredulous.

"Why do you think he's somehow _worse_ than she is," she demanded, irritated. "Harley is a _terrorist_."

Vicki's eyes widened, feeling _offended_ on Harley's behalf that neither of Gotham's vigilantes seemed to be taking the threat of Black Mask seriously.

"I met Roman's fiancee once," Vicki replied hotly, not bothering to hide her feelings. "Her name was Samantha Pierce. Roman cut her tongue out and tortured her to make her obedient. Then he killed her, and was planning on doing the same thing to Harley. He wanted her to be his _slave._ "

Dinah looked taken aback for a moment, surprised even, then she sighed and shook her head, almost sadly.

"Harley tortures people too, Vicki," she said. "She is not better than Roman. She's objectively _worse_. She's made you think _she's_ the victim."

"She _is_ the victim this time," Vicki insisted.

Vicki wasn't sure why she was pushing so hard to defend Harley, but she couldn't seem to stop.

"Everything is strategic with her," Dinah said dully. "She's weaponized your empathy."

"No," Vicki shook her head, getting flustered. "I know what she is. I know what she's capable of, but what Roman wants to do to her is worse than death, and she does not _deserve_ that. _No one_ does. I can have empathy for her without being _manipulated_ by her." Vicki scoffed impatiently. "You're the one sitting here pretending a rapist who tortures women isn't all that bad just because he isn't Harley Quinn. What is it about her that makes you so… so _cold_ , huh?"

Dinah sagged back against the couch cushions, her brow furrowing like she was confused.

"Why do you treat her like she's superhuman?" Vicki demanded. "She's just a woman underneath all of it. Not a good woman, but she's a human being with feelings."

Dinah looked up sharply.

_"Feelings_ ," she spat, her voice thick. "I have seen her do _terrible_ things." Her nostrils flared, and her spine straightened. "I _helped_ her do terrible things because I believed she _cared_ about me. She _tricked_ me!"

Vicki's eyes widened at the sheer emotion in Dinah's voice.

And how _young_ she sounded.

And suddenly, Dinah's virulent _loathing_ of Harley made sense. It wasn't just because Harley was Harley Quinn, murderer, terrorist, and the Joker's paramour.

This was personal.

Vicki remembered how it felt to have Harley hug her in the alley and how she'd craved the numbness Harley inspired in her. What it felt like to want Harley to keep her safe despite knowing it was wrong, or evil, even.

She couldn't imagine feeling all that and being so young.

Vicki's iPhone started to beep and vibrate frantically— _ding!_ -zzz- _ding!_ -zzz- _ding!_ -zzz—with notifications. She looked down at the screen to see Arturo Rodieguz was tweeting again, and her breath caught when she saw the grainy video clip at the top of his feed.

A mob of people wearing clown masks had swarmed a battered police cruiser, orange flames licking at the background as gunshots rang out. The clowns pulled someone out of the back window, lifting them overhead and passing her along.

It was Harley.

Vicki watched the ten-second clip three times, speechless and horrifically _hopeful_.

"What is that?" Dinah demanded.

"Um." Vicki considered lying, and she told herself she would lie because Dinah was injured and would insist on going back out to find Harley if she knew. But that wasn't the only reason.

Vicki pushed away the impulse to cover for Harley and turned the phone screen toward Dinah, who watched the ten-second clip grimly, her nostrils flaring.

"Where is this?" she hissed, ripping the phone out of Vicki's hand.

Another video started playing.

_"Okay—okay, there's a lot of unrest right now, but it appears Harley Quinn has just escaped police custody. Or... or was **taken** from police custody. It's hard to say at the moment." _Arturo was cut off by an explosion in the background, making the phone's speakers rattle, and when the fuzzing stopped, he was saying: _"... appears to have escaped in a black BMW!"_

"Black BMW," Vicki looked up at Dinah, her heart leaping in her throat. "Roman got her."

Dinah ground her teeth, her mind working fast. She jumped to her feet and circled the couch.

"What are you doing?" Vicki demanded anxiously, watching Dinah duck down to press her thumb against an otherwise inconspicuous-looking slab of marble.

There was a hiss as a section of the wall ejected, and a drawer appeared. Dinah scooped out a black cowl and shoved it on her head, her jaw set as its fastenings locked together at the side of her neck.

"Dinah, what are you _doing_? You're injured!" Vicki got to her feet as Dinah marched toward the balcony doors.

"I have to stop Harley," Dinah snapped.

"Stop her? Roman _kidnapped_ her," Vicki pointed out. "How are you planning on finding _him_?"

Dinah stopped short, her shoulders heaving before she spun around to face Vicki, raw desperation blazing in her tawny eyes behind the mask.

"I _have_ to," she hissed.

Vicki pressed her lips together, searching for the right words to stop Dinah from leaving while she was hurt.

"I know how it feels to be… _horrified_ by yourself because of what she can get you to do," Vicki said weakly. "But getting yourself killed chasing her down won't make up for anything you did."

"I _have_ to stop her," Dinah insisted emotionally. "If I can stop her, then…"

She trailed off, but Vicki understood.

If Dinah could stop her, she could find absolution.

"It won't be enough," Vicki croaked. "You have to forgive yourself. Getting yourself killed trying to find her won't help anyone. _Please_ , Dinah, just let Bruce go after her."

Dinah shook her head furtively, stubbornly, and Vicki's face softened, sympathy bleeding into her expression as she realized there would be no stopping her.

"Try the Janus Plastics Plant," she suggested, her voice strained. "Roman has this dynastic obsession that motivates almost everything he does. That's a good place to start looking for him."

Dinah searched Vicki's face, and apparently, she found what she was looking for. She turned and bolted out onto the balcony, not hesitating before she swan-dived over the edge.

Vicki stared after her, feeling helpless and useless. She took a deep breath to pull herself together, trying to decide what her next move needed to be.

Her phone was still beeping and vibrating relentlessly with new notifications. Not just from social media, but her editors and colleagues, and sources too. They wanted to know where she was and what she was reporting on.

Vicki didn't belong in a penthouse while her billionaire-vigilante (ex) boyfriend saved the city. Vicki was supposed to be on the streets, getting the truth to the people.

And unlike Arturo Rodriguez, Vicki had some _exclusive_ insight into these riots.

Her resolve hardening, Vicki rushed over to the secret drawer still standing open at the wall and peered inside. A second cowl and two Kevlar vests were on display there, and she quickly snatched up the smaller vest and pulled it on over her head, the velcro crackling as she strapped it around her torso.

Vicki checked her phone one last time. Seventy percent battery was enough to do her job, she decided. She ran for the elevator, not sure what she would find on the streets, but knowing it was her job to report on it.

* * *

Ed woke up to some _very_ noisy rioters. They were pissed off, raging, still chanting, their voices like a maelstrom of garbage _grinding_ through Ed's ears. He blinked hard, trying to push through the fog of a concussion, thanks to that little _minx_ Black Canary. _Low blow, BC_ , Ed thought sullenly. Low _blow._

But once Ed's eyes were open, he instantly regretted it, the sharp glare of fluorescent lights blinding him. He moaned and turned his face into his sleeve, his moaning kicking up a few octaves when he realized he was laying on a cold cement floor, and his wrists were handcuffed together.

_"_ Ah, _fudge_ ," Ed whined, his head pounding like a drum.

Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to prop himself up on his elbow and look around, and _oh,_ the _humanity_! He was alone in a holding cell at what he could only assume was the GCPD's Major Crimes Unit, a generator humming noisily to keep the lights on. The cells around him were packed with rioters rattling the bars and chanting, still proudly displaying their civil discontent in incarceration.

Some looked like the anarchists and bikers associated with Alexandra Kosov's gang, but most of them were pretty normal-looking. College kids, white middle-class leftists, _vegans_. That cheered Ed up exponentially that they'd fallen hook line and sinker for his glorious master plan, putting on clown masks and whipping up some constructive chaos under his watchful eye.

Okay, _maybe_ the Joker had done most of the talking, but it was _Ed's_ evil plan.

But his momentarily-buoyed mood was ruined once he realized he was missing his beloved sea-foam green Dior blazer.

Ed's bottom lip jutted out in a pout as he looked around the cell again, his heart beating a little faster as he accepted that he was in _captivity_.

Oh _, God_. They were going to send him to Blackgate or Arkham.

There _definitely_ wouldn't be any Dior there.

A few diabolical plans occurred to Ed as he fruitlessly searched for an opening. He just needed something to _inspire_ his evil genius into action, some cosmic little something to set him in motion. And when that didn't happen, he tried to judge the likelihood that Harley and J would break him out. Hard to say. Maybe fifty-fifty. Maybe less. It depended on what happened to them…

" _Riddler_ ," someone sneered behind him.

Ed looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows raising when he saw a middle-aged Latina detective glaring at him from the other side of the bars. Her black hair had a pretty fabulous natural wave, and she was pretty in a dykey way. But her brown suit was cheap, cheap, _cheap_. Kohls, he was pretty sure. Ed instinctively recoiled, his hand flying to his heart as he gasped in pity and horror.

"You and I are gonna have a little talk," the detective informed him hostilely.

"Okay," Ed narrowed his eyes. "Hang on, am I technically under arrest? I don't think anyone read me my rights."

"You're a domestic terrorist," she sneered as a beat cop unlocked Ed's cell. "You're lucky you're feelin' anything below the neck."

"Get up, ya fuckin' clown," the cop snapped, grabbing the back of Ed's Prada shirt thoughtlessly.

" _Clown?_ " Ed huffed indignantly. " _Hello!_ I'm the Riddler, _jeez_."

"Yer a fuckin' clown in my book, buddy," the beat cop scoffed, marching Ed out of the cell.

"Hey, easy on the Prada!" Ed squealed, wiggling furiously.

"Prada, huh?" the lady detective raised her eyebrows as she looked Ed's shirt over, then promptly tossed the dregs of her coffee cup down Ed's chest.

He released a prolonged gasp of abject horror, looking between his shirt and the detective's smirking face.

"You _bitch_!" Ed accused, giving his best Alexis Carrington impression.

But the lady detective just shot the cop holding Ed in place a knowing look.

"Book him," she drawled. "The Riddler here's got some explaining to do."

* * *

The Janus Plastics Plant consisted of the old factory, where the plastics used to be made, and an office block attached to the eastern side of the building, where the business of selling plastics was done. All of it had closed down in the early 80s at the tail end of the depression, bought up and liquidated by Wayne Enterprises.

All day, Crane had been waiting in the plant's control room, which overlooked the old factory floor. It was lined with huge out-dated banks of computers, the kind that would take an hour to process what a cell phone could do instantaneously. He was left with a pair of well-heeled henchmen, ostensibly to keep him safe, or perhaps as a barrier to stop him from leaving. Roman was running low on allies. Not even Hamilton Hill would take his calls.

And once again, Jonathan Crane was out of options.

Sometime after midnight, Roman returned. He was limping, his face a bloodied pulp with one eye swollen shut, and his nose broken.

It looked like his plan to hand Harleen and the Joker over to the Batman had backfired.

_You got no idea what she's capable of._

The Joker's words raced through Crane's mind as Roman shrugged off the help of a henchman and staggered over to a control panel beneath the viewing window. He fumbled in the breast pocket of his blazer for a baggie of white powder and shook some out on the desk, racking up two lines with shaking hands while Crane and the henchmen watched in tense, horrible silence.

The stench of desperation was undeniable, radiating from Roman like a noxious cloud. He snorted up two lines of cocaine, then wiped his nose furiously, spinning around to face them.

"I don't normally indulge," he sneered, looking off-kilter and unsteady. "But as you can see, these are not normal times."

Crane ran his tongue over his bottom teeth, fighting back a disdainful sneer at this pathetic showing.

"Jonathan," Roman tried to force a smile as he staggered forward and grabbed Crane by both arms, making him sway back. "Lucy is dead, and I need _you_ to take her place."

Uncertain how to respond, Crane said nothing, trying not to recoil when Roman leaned in closer, his battered face hideous, his sunken eyes manic from narcotics and desperation.

"Rupert Daggett will replace his father, and we will take over Wayne Enterprises with Anarky's help," Roman insisted, though it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. "And then together, we will… _destroy_ the Joker."

Crane could do little more than stare back at Roman uncertainly.

"And Harleen—?" he started to say.

There was a commotion out in the factory, henchmen's voices, and the rattling of the metal platform as they jogged across it.

Roman forced another smile, shaky but confident. "She's on her way now."

Four burly thugs in expensive suits stomped into the control room, and Roman's smile grew wider, more manic and unhinged. He choked out a laugh and released Crane, spreading his arms wide in welcome to his minions.

"And here she is now!" he greeted them cheerfully, unsteady on his feet.

Crane turned slowly, inhaling sharply when he saw one of the thugs was carrying Harleen.

She was unconscious, her painted face bloodied and bruised, her red dress torn.

"See," Roman beamed as one henchman lowered her to the floor beside a structural pole and another zip-tied her hands behind it, her legs splayed out in front of her, her limp body slumping forward. "Everything always comes together," Roman sighed happily. "It's over now."

Dread crawled around Crane's gut as he watched Roman duck down to arrange Harleen's hair over her shoulder, almost lovingly, confident he'd already won.

But nothing Roman said would convince Jonathan Crane this was over yet.

_You got no idea what she's capable of._

* * *

**A/N: This chapter is kind of non-stop action. I have no idea how that really plays, considering you're reading it, not watching it!  
**

**Two big 'Joker' easter eggs that I hope some of you enjoyed.  
**

**Next: Pam and the Joker are forced to collaborate. Ed gets a visit from the Batman. Harley wakes up and isn't especially happy.  
**

**Please review! They give me life.**

**xo**


	23. Chapter 23

_Theme: David Lynch feat. Karen O - 'Pinky's Room' (Trentemøller Remix) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/x7sX4-3hAfg)) ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2yKvgajKAzV5gklTRLDc0U?si=S3J_HL3YTS-bB8H2SpWroQ))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

23.

* * *

The stolen ambulance was on its last legs and hardly inconspicuous. It was riddled with bullet holes, its front bumper smashed in, the windows shattered and sides battered. Pam's nerves were shot as she drove through Gotham's Eastside, her ears still ringing from the grenade on the bridge. Not to mention the _bullet wound_ currently forcing her to keep her left arm tight to her side, the pain making it hard to focus, let alone drive a bulky vehicle with one hand.

"Where the fuck are we going?" she demanded when the Joker didn't give her any further instructions.

"Chinatown," he grunted.

"I'm not a fucking _cab_ driver," Pam shot back. "I'm gonna need a little more to go on."

He growled something under his breath. "Left here," he eventually snapped.

"Prick," Pam muttered, wincing as she yanked the wheel left toward Chinatown.

The Joker didn't respond this time. He hunched forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his gaze intent on the road ahead of them. Pam wasn't sure what to make of it.

The ambulance lurched along reluctantly through the empty, narrow streets, the Joker grunting sparse instructions until he finally wagged a finger at a dark alley. Pam yanked them off the road, the ambulance's belly scraping over the pavement as they slid into the alley. They skidded to a stop when she stomped down on the brake, the front bumper falling off with a noisy rattle.

Pam pulled the keys out of the ignition and eased off her seatbelt, her arm in agony. She took two deep breaths to clear her head before she turned to watch the Joker fumble through the glovebox, eventually producing an orange plastic flare gun.

"Guess I'll get to see some of that improvising I hear so much about," Pam sneered, kicking her door open while the Joker scowled at her and did the same.

She winced and prodded her arm as she circled to the back of the ambulance, eager to see if she could scrounge some medical supplies.

"C'mon, Red," the Joker snapped, heading for the street with the flare gun drawn.

Pam ignored him as she fumbled with the ambulance's back door, struggling to get them apart with one hand.

 _"Red_ ," he barked impatiently, making Pam spin around.

"Did you miss the part where I got fucking _shot_ ," she spat, gesturing to her arm.

He scowled, his eyes flashing in a downright deadly glare as he loped back up to her, elbowing her aside to get the doors open.

"Aw, gee, _thanks_ ," Pam sneered, prompting the Joker to shoot her another dirty look.

The doors swung open with a loud creak, revealing Penny, the female EMT Pam droned earlier in the night. She was crouched on the floor in her underwear, her head bleeding after their Mr Toad-esque adventures.

Penny's eyes widened hopefully when she saw Pam, full of love and adoration.

 _Shit_ , Pam had completely forgotten she was back there.

"Ms Rose," Penny gasped happily, jumping to her feet.

Pam felt a familiar warmth beneath the skin of her palms, but it quickly transformed into a searing heat she could feel in her cheeks, and she reacted without thinking.

Later, when she looked back on this moment, she would remember that they were running short on time and resources, having just been in a car chase with the GCPD and Black Mask's thugs. That she had a gunshot wound to deal with and that a torture-happy rapist had kidnapped Harley. She'd remember there wasn't time to deal with Penny the EMT, and that what she did next was reasonable, even if she hadn't _meant_ to do it.

Pam's hand flew up, her fingers slamming closed into a fist.

Penny threw her head to the side in one quick, violent movement, breaking her neck and collapsing to the floor.

There was a pregnant pause before Joker swung around to stare at Pam, who was still holding her fist in front of her face, her eyes wide as she realized what she'd done. She let her arm drop, staring at Penny's body and feeling the Joker's eyes on her— _boring_ into her.

Pam ground her teeth together, a swarm of questions flooding her brain. The scientist in her was eager to understand what had just happened, but the test subject in her—because Pam would _always_ be her own test subject—wanted no part in it. The white-hot pain of her gunshot wound reminded her that there were more important things to worry about, so she pushed those questions determinedly aside and jumped into the back of the ambulance to hunt for bandages.

"Uh… what the _fuck_ was that?" the Joker demanded roughly.

"Shut _up_ ," Pam snapped at him over her shoulder. Her eyes darted to Penny on the floor as she shoved a roll of bandages in her pocket.

She could feel the Joker watching her as she jumped back out of the ambulance, his eyes glowing suspiciously in the darkness.

"So where the fuck are we going?" Pam snapped, flustered.

He took a deep breath like he was rallying his patience, then silently turned and loped off up the street, forcing Pam to hurry after him to keep up. They darted down a few side streets and then through some back alleys, Pam keeping her mouth pinched shut despite the urge to harangue him for information. He was obviously keeping a few choice thoughts to himself—a miraculous development—but Pam didn't want to hear what he had to say anyway.

They stuck to the shadows and finally stopped in front of a Chinese restaurant with newspapers and menus taped to the glass. Pam watched warily as the Joker retrieved a brass key from his waistcoat and unlocked a gated door to the right of the restaurant, letting them into a small, moldy-smelling corridor.

"Where—?" she started, but he ignored her, dodging up a rickety staircase.

Pam followed reluctantly, scowling at his back.

At the top of the stairs, he let them into a tiny studio apartment outfitted with a sofa and an ottoman, a bare bulb swinging overhead. There was a kitchenette missing all of its appliances in the corner, and the windows were covered with brown paper. It smelled stale as if no one had been there in a while.

The Joker immediately headed for the kitchenette, throwing open a cupboard while Pam pushed the door shut and hung back. Her eyes swept the small room a few times, searching for some sign of who this apartment belonged to no avail. Her ears were still ringing, and her arm was killing her, and after lingering near the door a little longer, she staggered over to the couch and lowered herself down.

"What is this place," she asked, glancing at the Joker.

He swung around to lean against the sink, shooting Pam a dubious look as he deposited some tobacco in a cigarette paper and started rolling a smoke.

"Well?" Pam demanded impatiently.

He narrowed his eyes at her, observing her silently. It wasn't another dirty look or a resentful scowl—this time, he was _examining_ her. _Judging_ her.

Pam looked away and rolled her shoulders back, feeling rattled as she turned her attention to the blood-soaked arm of her jumpsuit.

"Just a place," the Joker eventually said, popping the rolled cigarette between his lips, his unsettling eyes focused on her the whole time.

"That's nice and vague," Pam scoffed.

She tugged the zipper of the baggy EMT uniform down to her waist and shrugged her right arm out. Gritting her teeth, she guided her injured left arm out of the sleeve, wincing each time her wound brushed against the rough canvas.

Now sitting in her blood-stained camisole with the jumpsuit bunched up around her waist, Pam sighed and squinted down at her arm where a bullet had grazed her. An angry two-inch gash slicing across her bicep, bleeding badly. She chewed on her top lip, uncertain what she was supposed to do—it wasn't an ideal time for a trip to the emergency room.

Pam was uniquely powerful, but she still bled and scarred like anyone else. She didn't frequently put herself in situations where being shot at was a possibility—in fact, Pam couldn't think of a single time she'd been shot at when Harley _wasn't_ involved. Pam insulated herself and protected herself because she was just as physically vulnerable as anyone else despite her abilities.

It seemed the Joker was thinking something similar.

"Mm, _that's_ gonna need some stitches," he drawled snidely, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Pam scowled at him—like hell she was sewing her arm shut with a needle and thread. "I'll be fine."

"Mmhmm," he said, smoking and staring as she stood and wobbled into a small bathroom.

It was disgusting and utilitarian, with a yellow toilet missing a seat and a plastic shower stall covered in black mold, a crusty towel smeared with red and black paint lying abandoned on the peeling linoleum floor. Pam couldn't imagine Harley entertaining a place like this—Harley was less interested in creature comforts than most, but even _this_ was a step too low in her book.

Then again, the Joker was a few steps lower as far as Pam was concerned.

Pam had reluctantly accepted Harley's relationship with the Joker as a necessary evil to keep Harley in her life. He was awful, but he didn't hurt her, and Pam was well-aware that without him, Harley would still put herself in dangerous situations in her never-ending quest to find meaning in life. Pam found it hard to make an argument that he was _bad_ for her, even if she despised the Joker and everything he stood for. A childish nihilist who didn't believe in consequences. He may not have been motivated by money, but greedy men of that same mindset were why Pam did what she did.

There was also no doubt that night at the parking garage still stood out in Pam's mind, the night they first met Black Canary. With Harley battered and beaten on the ground, Pam tried to control the situation, which quickly escalated when the Joker got in the way. He'd taunted her into using her abilities on him. That was how Pam remembered that night. She hadn't intended to or planned on it—he'd _goaded_ her into it.

Most people were like easy-flowing rivers. She'd slide right in and take over with no resistance. Then once she was in charge, things became even more peaceful for them. The two exceptions to this rule were Harley and the Joker.

It had been more like white water rafting with Harley—difficult, stressful, hard to control, but manageable.

With the Joker, she'd felt a small boat fighting against a hurricane in an open, endless sea and _losing_.

That stuck with Pam. Just like the way Harley holding a gun to her head that night did.

But that was all water under the bridge between them now. Harley explained she'd only been trying to save the Joker from Pam, a ridiculous idea, but one that Pam found endearing all the same. As if anyone would need saving from _her_.

Sequestered in the gross bathroom, she turned on the tap and splashed water on her arm, her teeth grinding together when her fingers grazed the bullet wound. The ringing in her ears was starting to fade, making it a fraction more comfortable to think clearly as she went through the painful task of cleaning up her arm. Then without much in the way of a choice, she squatted down to pick up the old paint-smeared towel, her nose wrinkling.

The Joker slunk into the doorway, bracing his shoulder against the frame and lifting an eyebrow at the dirty towel. He took a final drag of his cigarette and pulled a mostly empty bottle of Gordon's gin from behind his back.

"Would want ya getting all… _infected_ ," he sneered, offering it to her.

Pam snatched the bottle out of his hand and shot him a dirty look as she dumped gin on the cloth and held it to her arm. She hissed quietly when the alcohol hit the wound, her eyes closing under the stinging, lingering pain.

"So what's our plan," she said through clenched teeth. "You said Harley needs back up."

"Mm," he seemed to agree, tossing the end of his cigarette on the floor—God, he was such a _mess_ —as he spun around, apparently finished talking to her.

"Again," Pam snapped, following him as she adjusted her grip on her arm. "I'm gonna need a little more to go on, J."

Instead of answering, the Joker fell on the couch and hunched forward to roll another cigarette.

Deja vu over Harley hiding things from her prickled at the back of Pam's neck, and she was gearing up for a rant to tell him what a motherfucker he was when he looked up at her sharply.

"Lemme ask ya somethin', Red," he raised his eyebrows appraisingly. "You ever kill someone before?"

Pam's brow sank into a deep furrow. " _What_?"

"You heard me," he said mildly, depositing a pinch of tobacco in a cigarette paper balanced on his thigh.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Pam demanded.

"Mmhmm," the Joker chuckled, rolling the cigarette. "You spent _all_ that time with Harley. Workin' for Sofia, runnin' the mob. But not _once_ did you get your hands dirty."

Pam ground her teeth, feeling like she was being called a coward for not being a murderer.

"Cause that's how it is with you, _right_?" He licked the cigarette paper and caught her eye. "You _never_ do the dirty deed. You send your little _weeds_ into harm's way, or you let _Harley_ pull the trigger."

"You're right," Pam offered him a pinched smile. "I'm not a murderer."

He chuckled incredulously, running his tongue over his disgusting teeth as he sat back and squinted at her, making Pam shift uncomfortably.

"Ya are now, _Red_ ," he lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. "What _else_ would you call breaking that woman's neck?"

 _"I_ didn't break her neck," Pam shot back.

"Oh-ho-ho-ho," he grinned, looking delighted as he hunched forward. "Are you for _real?_ "

Pam sat heavily on the opposite end of the couch, her jaw tense and her arm aching as she thought back to the moment behind the ambulance.

"There wasn't time to deal with her," she insisted.

"Oh _, sure_ ," he agreed eagerly. "No judgment from _me_ , Red. But lemme ask ya something… why did you still have your _claws_ in her, huh?"

"What?" Pam shot him a bewildered look and was startled to see his face had darkened considerably.

"You think I don't know how it works?" he asked quietly, quirking one unamused eyebrow. " _Huh_?"

Pam eyed him warily. He looked at her like he could see into her soul, and what he saw was deeply unimpressive.

"You touch em'," he continued softly, seriously. "And if you don't let em' go… you go _loopy_."

"That's not how it works," Pam countered defensively. "I don't know what Harley told you, but one person isn't going to make a difference."

"It _always_ starts with one, Red," the Joker narrowed his eyes to an owlish squint. "You got one body under your belt. What's gonna stop you adding a few more?"

Pam scoffed incredulously. "Why the fuck do _you_ care?"

"Oh, I don't give a _shit_ what you do," he shot back, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. "But you know who does?"

 _Harley._ It was like her presence swam between them, filling the room with all her _Harley-ness_.

"And if you go fucking _nuts_ again," he said more roughly, jabbing his cigarette at her. " _She's_ gonna be the one to deal with it."

There was something in his voice that sounded irritatingly genuine, which Pam found both startling and upsetting. The suggestion that he thought _he_ was protecting Harley from _her_ was ludicrous when _he_ was the dangerous one.

But he sounded so _sure_.

She stared back at him uncertainly. "What are you saying?"

He cocked his head to the side like he was as bewildered by her as she was by him.

"I'm saying your fucking _voodoo_ gets her all twisted," he snapped, his expression grim. "Like your little powwow with _Victor_."

Pam looked down at her injured arm, considering what he was suggesting. Annoyingly, she knew he was _right._ Harley found it damn near impossible to let things go, and she _always_ had to be in control, micromanaging every situation. It was what made her such a ferocious opponent, but it was exhausting on a personal level.

"I'm not…" Pam faltered. "It was _different_ before," she insisted. "I didn't understand what was happening then."

"Like I said, Red," the Joker exhaled a plume of smoke and slapped a hand over his chest. "I don't give a _shit_ what ya do."

They lapsed into silence, leaving Pam to muse over the idea that her very presence in Gotham had already brought stress upon Harley's shoulders.

"Are you going to tell her?" Pam's eyes darted toward him. "About Penny? The EMT?"

He snorted incredulously and leaned forward.

"I don't _lie_ to her," he sneered.

"It isn't like she's going to _ask_ ," Pam countered, narrowing her eyes. "All it'll do is stress her out."

The Joker grunted something and flopped back on the couch, smoking in silence. Eventually, he nodded, his face twisting bitterly.

He appeared on the verge of saying something when a phone vibrated in his pocket, and he shifted around to get a look at it, his eyes narrowing as he hummed thoughtfully.

"Frost's on the way," he announced. "Pigs got Eddie."

 _"Fuck,"_ Pam hissed, unintentionally squeezing her gunshot wound, forcing her to stifle a groan as blood streamed down her arm.

The Joker shot her an amused look. "Didn't realize you were such a fan of the _Riddler._ "

"He's gonna talk," Pam predicted, her teeth grinding together as she thought about the potential consequences of Ed discussing her abilities with the GCPD. _They_ wouldn't be able to do anything but move a little higher up the food chain… the FBI… the _government_.

They would send people to _hunt_ her.

"He won't talk," the Joker reassured her with a lazy smirk. "I _guarantee_ it."

"You guarantee it," Pam scoffed and dug the ball of bandages out of her pocket. "Look, I like Ed, but he doesn't want to go to prison. He'll tell them _anything_ to get out of it. Including anything he has on you or Harley… _or_ me."

"He won't talk," the Joker said again, watching her start winding the bandages around her arm. "Eddie's got _big_ plans."

Pam paused what she was doing to squint at him. "Big plans?"

The Joker shrugged evasively, his eyes trained on his phone as it beeped again. Then he sniffed resolutely and hopped to his feet.

"Alright, _Poison Ivy,"_ she shot her a nasty smirk. "We got _business_ to attend to."

* * *

Being 'booked' was an excruciating process. The cops had already searched and divested Ed of his personal belongings while he'd been unconscious— _that_ felt nonconsensual. _Good-bye, black-croco Tom Ford belt,_ Ed thought miserably. _Farewell, Sofia Falcone timepiece!_

Montoya, the lady detective with the tragic suit, had her beat cop pals drag Ed into a weird little room with a camera set up on a tripod where they took his mugshot. Ed offered the camera a brilliant white grin until the cop barked at him to _"stop smiling, freak_!" at which point Ed shifted into a moody sulk, his patience wearing thin.

He remained sullen and silent while they fingerprinted him and took a cheek swab, ignoring the taunts and jabs from Montoya's cops, which he might typically have enjoyed. Instead, Ed's mood grew progressively blacker as he waited for something to _happen_. Something _had_ to happen. He couldn't just get picked off by the Batman and thrown in prison. That was just so… _boring._

By the time Ed was marched into an interrogation room and shoved into a chair, he was getting antsy and struggling to hide it. He felt like _Harley_ when she was on the verge of doing something impulsive and messy, which was not Ed's style at all. The only consolation was that the MCU cops were scared of him under all that sneering loathing. Ed didn't mind being loathed, though it wasn't quite as good as being worshiped. Being _feared_ though, that was much more up Ed's street.

It was just kind of hard to enjoy it when they'd taken all his _stuff_.

This could _not_ be the end of the line. It could not.

Montoya banged into the interrogation room, offering Ed a humorless smile as the door slammed shut behind her.

Ed ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, working out how he should play this. She had a revolver stashed in a holster at her hip, and she was lean and scrappy. Still, he was pretty sure he could overpower and disarm her. Shoot his way out. Hmm…

"So, you're goin' all in on the copycat thing, huh?" Montoya opened drily, taking the seat across from him.

Ed laced his bound hands together and sighed, exasperated. _"What?"_

"Refusing to give your name?" Montoya cocked an eyebrow at him. "No names, no other aliases? You're just the _Riddler_ , huh?"

"Well," Ed shrugged one shoulder, pretending to be bashful. "I can't help it if that's what my fans call me."

"So why don't you give me a real name?" Montoya sat back and folded her arms expectantly.

"My Grannie has a bad heart," Ed explained, his bottom lip jutting out pitifully. "I don't think she could take it."

"Your mugshot's about to be plastered all over the news," Montoya pointed out. "You aren't worried she'll _see_ you?"

"Oh, she's got _dementia_ , so she doesn't remember me anymore," Ed offered her a pinched smile. "But our last name is pretty… _unique_."

"Mm hmm," Montoya looked unamused. "No name then, huh? Lemme ask you something. When did you go from being a Joker copycat to his _employee_?"

"Um," Ed laughed awkwardly like Montoya was embarrassing herself. "I don't _work_ for the Joker."

"No?" Montoya cocked her head to the side. "So why were you with him and Harley Quinn tonight?"

"Oh, it's a _long_ story," Ed sighed. "But basically, we agreed to team up to take down Black Mask."

"Black Mask?" Montoya raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Ed leaned forward, a smirk sliding onto his lips. "See, that's what people call Roman Sionis these days."

"Roman Sionis?" Montoya scoffed. "The businessman you tried to _rob_ tonight?"

"Really?" Ed snorted, genuinely amused. _"That's_ what Roman told you guys? That the Joker, Harley Quinn, and the _Riddler_ were trying to _rob_ him?" He tipped his chin down, giving Montoya his most unimpressed look. "You don't really think we'd waste our time robbing some rich guy's penthouse, do you? Does that seem… on _brand?_ "

"I'd say it's pretty on-brand for _you_ , buddy," Montoya shot back. "You're a thief. Banks, museums, galleries. From the looks of those clothes you got on, I'd say you like a good five-finger discount at Saks too."

Ed's face darkened, disliking that she was pretty much calling him _basic_.

"Harley Quinn and the Joker, on the other hand," Montoya shrugged. "Burglary is a little below their usual MO. I'll give you that. But it sounds to me like they're trynna build their operation up. Maybe robbing Sionis was them getting the funds to do it."

"You don't believe that," Ed smirked. "What are you like, new to Gotham or something? _Newsflash_ , sweetie, the rich people here are just as dirty as the criminals. Black Mask just took it up a _whole_ 'nother level."

Montoya narrowed her eyes, and Ed stared back at her impassively.

"Alright, I'll play along," she agreed. "Tell me about the Black Mask."

"Mmm," a grin split Ed's face as he considered telling her everything, lying to her outright, and then what some kind of middle ground might look like. He fixed Montoya with a knowing smirk. "Okay. You know what Blue Orchid is, right?"

Montoya raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Blue _Orchid_?"

"You know, the party drug," Ed rolled his eyes up girlishly. "Well, that's how Black Mask took over the mob. Ya see, once the Batman took out all their drug routes, they got kinda desperate. So Roman showed up with Blue Orchid, and surprise surprise, they _all_ fell in line. Oh!" Ed's eyes widened, and he leaned forward eagerly. "Roman also hired Holiday to take out all the big crime lords last year, just FYI."

"Just _FYI_?" Montoya snorted in disbelief.

"Yeah," Ed nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, don't you think it's a little _weird_ how the mob just seemed to like, _disappear_?" He raised his eyebrows, but Montoya just stared back at him sourly. "See? You _totally_ think it's weird!"

"You're telling me Roman Sionis, a respected businessman, philanthropist, and member of the Palisades Country Club killed all the big gangsters, and he's been running the mob and making it look clean ever since?" Montoya sounded dubious, though she was obviously interested.

Ed nodded eagerly.

"So you, the Joker, and Harley Quinn decided you were gonna take him down?" Montoya looked unconvinced. "That's your story?"

"Ehhhhhh," Ed squinted at the wall behind Montoya's head as he considered telling her about the squad. But no, the squad was definitely not something Detective Montoya of the MCU was at liberty to hear about. That was more of a members-only situation. " _Well_ , we all had a little drama with Roman. Ya see, he's the one who hired Harley and J to kidnap the DA, the Police Commissioner, and that judge."

"So not only is Roman Sionis a drug dealer, but he hired the Joker and Harley Quinn to kidnap those people?" Montoya crossed her arms and sat back, unpersuaded.

"You _are_ a cop, right?" Ed narrowed his eyes. "You get that killing public servants and dealing drugs all goes under the header of _mob boss,_ right?"

"Why?" Montoya shot back. "The guy's a millionaire with a trust fund. What's he get out of it?"

"Power, influence, his own cult," Ed shrugged ambivalently. "Harley says he's a psychopath and a charismatic narcissist," he added in his best know-it-all voice. "She used to be a _very_ celebrated behavioral psychologist, you know. So I'd take anything she says on board."

"Oh, sure, I'll take Harley _Quinn's_ word for it," Montoya scoffed, squinting at Ed. "What is it, you got a thing for her or something? Huh? She like your inspiration?"

Ed sighed dramatically. Was he _ever_ going to live down his brief _moment_ as a copycat?

It sure did sound like he was going to need to do something _big_ to rebrand.

"Harley Quinn is a complicated person," Ed settled on primly. "I have a healthy professional respect for her. Our _personal_ relationship is none of your business, but…" He sighed fitfully. "I guess you could say it's complicated."

"It's _complicated_?" Montoya's eyebrows nearly jumped into her hairline. "We arrested Harley Quinn tonight, but she escaped after an _ambulance_ t-boned the cruiser transporting her to Blackgate. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would ya?"

"Hmm, _ambulance,_ " Ed feigned thoughtfulness. "No… no, nothing's coming to me, I'm afraid." He flashed Montoya a smirk. "You know I'd do anything to help you catch her, right?"

Montoya's face soured, and she nodded slowly. "Right."

A phone beeped in her pocket, and she glanced away from Ed to look at the screen, her eyebrows rising before she tucked it away.

Then she pulled a set of keys out of her blazer and gestured for Ed to give her his hands.

A little suspicious, Ed offered her his cuffed wrists, and she unlocked each of them before tucking the cuffs in her suit jacket along with the keys.

"If we're gonna play games," she got to her feet, offering Ed the faintest of smirks. "Then I'm gonna need a cup of coffee first."

She turned to leave until Ed called out after her, knowing what _Harley_ would want the cops to focus on.

"Oooh! One more thing, Detective Montoya!" he chirped, prompting her to turn back, her expression withering. "You _may_ want to look into the disappearance of a woman called Samantha Pierce."

"Samantha Pierce?" Montoya's brow knit together, bemused.

"She's probably a cold case," Ed said flippantly. "But she didn't disappear. You see, Roman Sionis is _super_ proficient at what the professionals call… _conditioning_."

Ed could see he had Montoya's attention. He narrowed his eyes, the smirk dropping off his face so she would know he was serious too.

"Roman cut Samantha's tongue out and murdered her sisters in front of her," Ed explained grimly. "Then he renamed her Circe and made her his fiancée. Does that sound like the kind of person you want running free? _Huh_?"

Montoya eyed him warily for a few long seconds, and Ed could tell she believed him even if she didn't want to. Then she turned on her heel and swept out of the room.

Ed settled back in his seat once the door slammed shut, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout as he tried to decide how long they'd leave him alone in there. He wasn't alone, of course. One look at the mirrored glass on the wall, and there was no doubt a line of cops was standing at attention behind it, watching him.

Ed flashed them a cheesy grin until he got a better look at himself in the mirror. His warpaint was smeared all over his face, making him look downright _crazy_ , and his hair was lank and floppy without product, making him look like a bum.

"Oh, _poo_ ," he huffed, licking his thumb and trying to scrub away some of the excess paint.

The interrogation room's lights snapped off suddenly, leaving Ed submerged in darkness. His body tensed as his other senses heightened, knowing this wasn't merely a case of the MCU's generator kicking the bucket. Oh no, Ed could _taste_ that this was something more than that. _Literally_ , he could taste a chalky, bitter substance he'd only ever experienced once before—when he came face to face with the Batman and had to make a super creative getaway.

The interrogation room's door opened and closed, but Ed was blind to everything, the room pitch black.

"Busting out those magic tricks again? That's pretty cute," Ed drawled, his heartbeat picking up.

The fluorescent lights snapped on, and Ed blinked rapidly, seeing the cloud of darkness dissipate before his very eyes, but no dark knight. The room was empty. Ed clenched his jaw, his eyes swinging right and left, his shoulders hunching as his good humor drained away.

There was a rustle behind him, but before Ed could spin around, a gloved hand connected with the back of his head, slamming his face down on the table. The impact made Ed's already tenuous grasp on consciousness waver, the pounding in his head intensifying with renewed vigor as his brain sloshed around his skull behind his eyes, making him groan.

"Heyyyy," he whined, squinting up at the Batman as he circled that table. "How about you stop—"

The Batman punched Ed in the cheek, _hard_.

Ed moaned and palmed his face, working his jaw. A fissure of black anger zig-zagged through his chest as the Batman sat in the chair opposite him, the blinding lights doing little to make him less intimidating even if he was dressed like a stupid bat.

"Where is the Joker?" the Batman rumbled, his eyes intent behind the cowl.

"How am _I_ supposed to know?" Ed sneered, still massaging his cheek. "Why don't you stop hitting me in the _face_ for a minute, and maybe I'll tell you, _huh_?"

"Do you not know, or are you refusing to tell me?" the Batman hissed.

Ed rolled his eyes impatiently.

"Do I know where he is right this minute? _No_ ," Ed snapped. "I'm not like, psychically tethered to him, am I?"

"But you have an idea?" the Batman pressed. "You've been working together to take down Black Mask. You must have some idea of where I can find him."

Ed eyed the Batman warily, definitely feeling he was dealing with a different class of detective.

"You believe me about Roman?" Ed asked suspiciously. "Why?"

"I have my sources," the Batman shot back. "I know about the poppies. About Daggett Shipping. About your partnership with Harley and the Joker." He leaned forward, glaring into Ed's eyes. "You're a thief, but you're not a terrorist. If you help us find them, you can cut a deal."

Ed scoffed, mostly because the Batman was flat out suggesting Ed wasn't as dangerous as Harley and the Joker when he'd absolutely _proved_ he was. He'd known the cops would dangle pardons or limited sentences or whatever in front of him if he flipped on Harley and J, told them everything he knew about them: personally, professionally, how they worked together, how they thought, what their weaknesses were (hint _: each other_ ), and best of all _Poison Ivy_.

Usually, Ed would have sung like a canary. But after the last few days…

"Why would you cover for them?" the Batman narrowed his eyes curiously.

Ed sighed and rolled his eyes out to the side, thinking fast, settling on the truth.

"The world would be a very boring place without the Joker and Harley Quinn," he explained.

"You _admire_ them?" the Batman demanded.

"We see the world the same way," Ed shot back. "All you _sheep_ getting caught up in the weeds because you have nothing else in your pointless little lives. We're the ones who give you a _purpose_."

"A purpose," the Batman sneered. "So you want chaos."

"Chaos is _way_ more fun than what this city currently has to offer," Ed flashed a grin. "But only a few of us know how to do it _right_."

"So you're still a copycat," the Batman rasped. "You want to be like them."

"Don't try to put me in a little box, _Batsy,_ " Ed sneered. "Just 'cause _you_ don't understand what I stand for."

"What do you think you stand for?" The Batman leaned forward, intent.

"I am bringing _pizzazz_ back to Gotham," Ed raised his chin and spread his hands, beaming. "I'm bringing the _party_. I'm giving people options. And if you think you have any idea what _I'm_ capable of, you are sorely mistaken. I haven't even gotten _started_ yet."

"You'll be in a padded cell by the end of the night," the Batman predicted. "Just like Harley Quinn. You may as well give her up. "

 _"Listen_ ," Ed leaned forward. "You ain't no Harley Quinn when it comes to getting people to talk, all right? You just—"

Before Ed could finish the thought, the Batman stood and reached across the table to grab Ed by the front of his rumpled Prada shirt, dragging him over the table.

"Hey!" Ed complained, his feet flailing.

" _Where are they!"_ the Batman roared, right in Ed's face, baring his teeth.

"I don't _know_ ," Ed was starting to grow _bored_ with this whole song and dance. "But I'll tell you what, a breath mint now and then wouldn't— _hey!"_

He got cut off when the Batman used his grip on Ed's shirt to flip him over and slam him down on the table, making Ed groan as his injuries from his fight with Black Canary ached furiously.

The Batman turned the table over before Ed could get his bearings, sending him sprawling to the floor, landing on his hip painfully.

"They have safe houses," the Batman growled, looming over Ed. "Where was your meeting point tonight? Where would the Joker hideout? Where would Harley Quinn escape to?"

These were all questions Ed was probably about seventy-percent sure he had the right answers to. There was the rendezvous point at the Hulu Warehouse, obviously, but Ed wasn't willing to give up that nugget of information. Squad rules were still in effect as far as he was concerned, and they had worked _way_ too hard to cage Roman in. Ed wasn't about to ruin all that work by sending the Batman after them—especially not when Harley and J were still his best hope for a timely escape.

They would come for him. He was _sure_ of it.

The Batman grabbed Ed by his shirt and hauled him up against the wall, lifting Ed off his feet as he scrambled to hold on to something.

"You're a copycat and a thief," the Batman grunted, disgusted. He pulled back his gloved fist and punched Ed in the face again, hitting his already swollen cheek.

Ed's vision blackened around the edges as his head snapped to the side, bile rising in his throat.

"They're _using_ you," the Batman hissed.

"Don't we _all_ use each other," Ed croaked, trying to push past the pain and disorientation.

 _"Where are they_!" the Batman roared, another punch, this time to the mouth, the taste of iron heavy on Ed's tongue.

"Ya know, I noticed something earlier," Ed slurred, his head rolling back against the wall, his eyelids fluttering. "Your little _sidekick_ has a hard-on for Harley, doesn't she? Where's she at right now, huh? _Chasin'_ her down? Maybe feeling a little _emotional_ and _vulnerable_? That's when people slip up, don't they?" Ed's eyes snapped open. "Maybe you should be looking after your own house, _Batsy_ ," he spat.

Ed expected another punch to the face for his snark, one that would probably knock him out for the count this time. But the Batman just seethed at him, his eyes darting around Ed's face.

"Ooh, did I hit a _nerve_ ," Ed cracked a grin, his teeth bloodied. "What is it, huh? BC got some ancient history with the diabolical _Harley Quinn?_ Cause I got news for you, _Batman_. You may have rules, but Harley—she lives to _break_ em'." Ed's lip curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes blazing. "She's gonna snap that little bird's _neck_ and wear her rib cage as a _hat_."

The Batman's shoulders were rising and falling sharply as he stared into Ed's eyes. Then all at once, he released Ed and turned on his heel, storming out of the interrogation room.

Ed slid down the wall, his eyes still rolling, the room moving like a funhouse. He drew his knees up to his chest and giggled helplessly, the laughter spilling out of him as he collapsed sideways.

* * *

_Poison Ivy._

In truth, the name the Lucky Hand gave Pam never particularly bothered her. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she enjoyed the fact that Poison Ivy had become a myth among Gotham's thugs. They feared her and her abilities, and rightly so.

Still, suggesting she infected men's minds like deadly weeds taking over a garden wasn't the _most_ flattering comparison, and the Joker _definitely_ wasn't allowed to use it.

"Don't call me that," Pam snapped, tying off the bandage on her arm before she stood up too, glaring at the Joker, who rolled his eyes and started for the door. "Is Frost picking us up?"

"Nah," he tossed over his shoulder. "We're gonna get _creative_."

" _Creative_? Are you fucking kidding me?" Pam huffed, prompting the Joker to turn around, glaring at her impatiently. "We don't have guns," Pam pointed out. "How do we defend ourselves?"

The Joker scoffed and gestured to her. "You're the _original_ weapon, _aren't ya_ , Red?" he sneered.

Pam scowled back at him. "If I'm not close enough to touch them, they can still _shoot_ me."

He ran his tongue over his scarred bottom lip, glowering at her for a moment before he pulled the flare gun out of the back of his ridiculous purple pants. He offered it to Pam with a flourish of his wrist, flashing a condescending smirk.

"What about you?" Pam asked, stuffing the flare gun in the EMT jumpsuit's pocket.

" _Me_?" the Joker pulled a long switchblade from his pants pocket. He snapped it open with a flick of his wrist and stomped his left foot simultaneously, triggering a blade to shoot out of the toe of his brogue.

He cocked his head to the side, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Pam folded her arms, reluctantly impressed.

"Fine," she agreed. "Where are we meeting Frost?"

"Hulu," the Joker grunted, knocking the toe of his brogue on the floor, so the blade slid back in place. Then he started for the door again. "Any more fuckin' _questions_ ," he snapped over his shoulder. "Or can we get a _move_ on?"

Pam grumbled under her breath and tied the arms of the jumpsuit around her waist, checking her gunshot wound quickly. Blood was already seeping through the bandage, making her suck on her teeth nervously. But lingering at that shitty little apartment wasn't going to stop her bleeding, and it wasn't going to get Harley back from Roman either.

Pam squared her shoulders and followed the Joker out of the apartment, fantasizing about droning him and making him eat his tongue.

That would make him _much_ more agreeable to be around.

Unfortunately, Pam wasn't sure she'd be able to _do_ it.

His stupid psychopath brain was too stubborn.

Of course, the moment they got to the ground floor and opened the front gate, a police cruiser slid down the narrow street, its lights flashing ominously. The Joker dodged back inside, shoving Pam none-to-gently when she didn't move fast enough, making her swear when she knocked her arm on the wall.

"What the _fuck_ ," she hissed up at him in the dark.

"Shut _up_ ," he snapped gruffly, peering through a crack in the door, his back pressed against the wall.

They stood there in silence for almost a full minute, Pam growing antsy and twitchy, her arm aching. Finally, the Joker seemed to deem it safe enough to leave and pushed the door open, sliding out onto the empty street with Pam on his heels.

She hurried to keep up with him, her shoulders hunched and eyes swinging up and down the street. She suspected she wasn't doing an excellent job of what Harley called _blending in_ , but she was also wearing a blood-spattered camisole and half a stolen EMT uniform, her arm bandaged and hair wild after the evening she'd had. And she could _really_ do with a hair tie.

J was doing very little to blend in himself. His warpaint was almost completely smeared off, and he was sweaty, bloody, wounded, soot-stained, and generally looking a complete mess before you even got to the purple trousers and green waistcoat.

"We are so screwed," Pam muttered.

"Nah," the Joker sniffed, his eyes narrowing when he spotted a dark blue beater that looked at least thirty years old. Its passenger door and a section of the hood were a different color from the rest, and the hubcaps were rusted out, but the Joker loped toward it eagerly while Pam sighed and followed.

"That thing doesn't have seatbelts," she predicted drily, watching the Joker pull open the driver's door, which wasn't even locked. "It's not going to run," she added flatly.

The Joker shot her another dirty look and ducked behind the wheel, and Pam reluctantly slid into the passenger seat, which did have a seatbelt.

It smelled awful, like sour milk and rotting food, and when Pam looked in the backseat, she was horrified to find a plastic sack of take out crawling with maggots.

"Ugh," she wrinkled her nose, watching the Joker flick open his switchblade and start prying off the steering column with a practiced hand. "This thing is disgusting."

"Sorry the _getaway_ vehicle isn't up to your standards, _Red_ ," he sneered, cutting a few wires then tucking the knife away. He tapped the ends together, the wires sparking, and after a few false starts, the engine rattled to life.

Pam pulled on her seatbelt, resigning herself to her fate as the Joker pulled the crappy little car onto the street and headed south toward the Meatpacking District. She peered down at her arm, prodding the bloodied bandage experimentally, and caught the Joker looking too.

He met her eye briefly, and she glared back at him, prompting him to roll his eyes as he shifted around to pull a phone out of his pocket. His eyes darted between the road and the phone as he thumbed a few buttons then held it to his ear.

Someone answered almost immediately.

"Red got herself shot," he drawled down the line. "We gotta make sure she's patched up and uh… in _fighting_ shape."

Then he hung up without another word.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pam demanded.

The Joker shot her a sidelong look. "I got a lot of experience with _blood loss_ , Red," he explained drily. "You're gonna wanna get that sewn up before things get all… _fuzzy_ for ya."

Pam remembered what Harley told her about the Joker's near-death experience, and her eyes immediately darted to the long, dark red scabs running halfway up the insides of his forearms. They were grotesque, and though she was glad he wasn't dead for Harley's sake, Pam didn't feel pity for him in the slightest.

"You don't seriously expect me to let you suture this for me, do you?" Pam sneered. "Look what you did to your own fucking face."

The Joker turned to stare at her, his eyes narrowing with his usual vitriol, but there was something _surprised_ glittering there too. Pam assumed it was because no one spoke to him that way. Everyone was scared of him. Everyone but Harley, who was immune to his wrath, and Pam, who was stronger than him.

Obviously, she didn't have any idea what happened to his face or who sewed it shut, but she smirked as she settled back in her seat, hoping she'd hit a nerve.

"Frost'll do it for you," he eventually grunted, apparently ambivalent about the insult.

Pam's face soured, annoyed that he was so unfazed. "Why do you treat Frost like your slave?"

 _"Really?"_ he scoffed, shooting her an incredulous look. _"You're_ asking _me_ about treating people like _slaves_?"

"Oh, fuck off," Pam huffed, her cheeks turning pink.

They sat in silence for the rest of the drive after that, pulling up to the Hulu Meatpacking Plant with a screech of the beater's bald tires. The neighborhood was deathly quiet, still mostly abandoned in the wake of Crowne Tower's unplanned demolition at the hands of the Joker almost two years earlier. That meant the Hulu warehouse looked unusually alive with all its lights on and cars scattered out front compared to the rest of the block.

"Oh, this is subtle," she observed sarcastically, waving her uninjured arm at a semi-truck backed halfway into the warehouse, with five men wearing clown masks balanced on ladders painting its side.

The Joker ignored her, winding around the side of the semi and dodging under the ladders into the warehouse. The clowns stopped what they were doing to stare after him like they couldn't believe they were seeing the Joker in person, making Pam roll her eyes as she followed close behind.

But she stopped short when she saw just how many clowns were there, her eyes widening as she looked around. There had to be almost a hundred of them—some masked, some of them painted, some not. Some were punks or anarchists, and others just looked like your typical crummy thugs. But they all moved aside for the Joker, parting like the Red fucking Sea as he loped across the warehouse floor to the office where they'd killed Reeves that afternoon.

Pam eyed the clowns warily as she speed-walked behind him, wondering how they'd all known to be there and what they all thought they were getting out of it.

Frost was waiting beside the office door, looking dirty and exhausted himself after a stressful evening of evasive driving and drumming up chaos with the other clowns. By the looks of that warehouse, Frost had been doing much more than that.

"Alright, boss," Frost greeted the Joker with a nod, offering him a pack of cigarettes, which the Joker snatched out of his hand worldlessly. "Pammy," Frost offered her a smile as she passed him into the office, and she attempted to return it, though it probably looked more like a grimace since her teeth were grinding together relentlessly.

The office smelled like blood, which might have made Pam gag on a better day. A brown streak on the wall looked like someone had tried to wipe away a handprint, and the floor was _sticky_.

"God, what the fuck did you do to Reeves in here?" Pam wrinkled her nose, the clunky EMT boots sticking to the floor.

" _Tickled_ him," the Joker flashed her a nasty grin as he hopped up on one of the two desks pushed up against the walls and promptly lit a cigarette.

Pam shot him a glare and turned to Frost, who was squinting at her injured arm thoughtfully. The bandage had soaked through, and blood was starting to drip down her arm again.

"I hear ya need a little fixin' up, Pammy," Frost held up a plastic sack bearing the Rite Aid logo, ostensibly containing the 'fixing up' materials. "How you feelin'?"

"Like fucking shit," Pam grumbled, hauling herself up on the free desk.

Frost pulled a chair up beside her and shook out the contents of the sack: a travel-sized sewing kit, a roll of gauze, a liter of hydrogen peroxide, and a box of heavy-flow maxi-pads.

Pam closed her eyes. Her arm was aching furiously, and she couldn't quite believe she was allowing one of the Joker's henchmen to sew her arm with a needle and thread. But the Joker was (annoyingly) right. If she kept bleeding, she'd be useless, and there was no way Pam would allow herself to be useless when Harley needed her.

She took a deep breath, centering herself while Frost pulled on a pair of reading glasses and began unwinding the bloodied bandage tied around her arm.

"So," Pam shot the Joker an expectant look as Frost doused a maxi pad in hydrogen peroxide. "What's next?"

The Joker ran his tongue over his split bottom lip, raking a hand through his gross, greasy green hair. _Thinking,_ Pam realized.

Frost started cleaning her wound with the pad, making her hiss through her teeth, the antiseptic leaving a lingering, stinging pain alongside the steady ache she'd been dealing with all night.

"Janus _Plastics_ ," the Joker drawled at length, looking up to catch Pam's eye. " _Daddy's_ factory. That's where he's got her _. Anarky_ too."

"So what's the plan? Do we pack all these clowns into the semi-truck? Launch an attack?" Pam held the maxi pad against her arm while Frost threaded a needle from the sewing kit.

"Nah," the Joker shook his head and hopped off the desk. "It's just _you_ and me, Red."

He strode across the office and out the door, slamming it behind him without another word.

"What the _fuck_!" Pam snapped after him. " _Motherfucker_ ," she muttered, making Frost chuckle as he disinfected the needle and thread with hydrogen peroxide.

"Don't worry, Pammy," Frost reassured her, his eyes intent on his task. "The boss'll have somethin' up his sleeve. Now you do me a favor and think about something nice, okay?"

Pam thought about forcing the Joker to eat his tongue again, which did make her happy, but she still hissed and cursed when Frost began sewing the bullet wound closed.

"Where the fuck did all those people come from anyway?" she demanded, trying to distract herself.

"I been havin' a few chats with folks over this way," Frost explained, his reading glasses sliding down his nose as he squinted at her arm. "Lettin' em' know the boss and Harley are looking for guys. That kinda thing."

"You got all those guys to come here?" Pam's eyebrows rose, surprised.

"Nah, I can't take all the credit," Frost smiled up at her. "I just said the Joker's lookin' for guys, and it'd be a good time. Maybe better than what they currently got goin' on, ya know?"

Pam watched Frost work, suddenly feeling very relieved that Harley had this particular henchman in her life. It occurred to her that there was one good way to make sure he was entirely loyal to Harley. That should there be a situation where Frost needed to lay down his life for Harley, he would do it.

Pam's fingers curled into a fist as a familiar heat began to grow under her palms. It quickly spread to her cheeks, under her arms, and the soles of her feet, the stress of the evening, and her emotions running high making it more intense and harder to control. She didn't have a name for the heat, but it was uncomfortable and itchy, _unsatisfied,_ and knowing how easy it would be to give it what it wanted made Pam's fist tighten until her hand was shaking.

The needle pierced her skin again, helping to bring her back to the present. She closed her eyes to focus, and eventually, her hand fell limp on her thigh, the heat receding.

Frost tied off the thread and was wrapping gauze around her arm and a maxi-pad acting as a makeshift bandage when the Joker returned, guiding a chubby young man in by the shoulders.

"Who the fuck is this?" Pam demanded as the door slammed shut again.

"This," the Joker smirked, peering down at the kid over his shoulder, winding around him like a snake. "Is _Buddy._ "

Buddy blinked rapidly, looking twitchy but also oddly _blank_.

"And what _are_ you, Buddy?" the Joker purred smugly, smirking at Pam.

"I'm the driver, boss!" Buddy chirped obediently, making the Joker's smile grow even smugger if possible as he waggled his eyebrows at Pam.

Pam's face soured, realizing Buddy wasn't fully mentally competent and that the Joker had coached him into agreeing to something. That _shitty_ little grin was him challenging her to be a hypocrite and call him out for getting someone vulnerable to do his bidding, knowing full well how appalling it was.

But Pam had no such qualms about using Buddy, not when Harley was on the line.

"Sounds good," she sniffed, hopping off the table and turning to Buddy. "What is it you're driving?"

"A truck!" Buddy grinned.

"That semi-truck out there?" Pam raised an eyebrow at the Joker.

"Mm-hmm," he nodded, his tongue slipping over his bottom lip like he was excited. "I got a guy rigging up the cab for us."

"Rigging it up to _explode_?" Pam turned her head to the side like she wasn't sure she heard him right.

The Joker inclined his head toward Buddy meaningfully, and she understood.

 _Buddy_ would be the one doing the exploding.

"How does blowing the factory up help us?" Pam complained.

"Not _all_ the way up," the Joker rolled his eyes and pitched back to lean against the wall, Buddy standing between them, twitching. "Just enough to cause a little _chaos_."

"While we grab Harley and Anarky," Pam chewed her top lip thoughtfully.

She preferred the idea of sending an army of clowns in to raid the place while they stood back and watched, but Harley was likely being held somewhere within the factory. If the clowns made their presence known too early, Roman could kill her, hurt her, use her as a hostage, escape with her; anything.

Chaos would catch him off guard, and they could sneak in unnoticed.

And though she loathed to give him any kind of credit, J wouldn't make a move that could hurt Harley.

"Fine," she agreed, raising her chin. "How are we getting out of there?"

"One of Alexandra's boys stole a fast little thing from Midtown, boss," Frost announced. "Good for if the Bat shows up."

"Mmph," the Joker agreed with a grunt before looking at Pam again. "You're getaway driver, Red," he offered her a nasty grin. "Hope you can drive _stick_."

* * *

Harley woke up slowly, feeling like she was fighting her way out of a black hole determined to suck her back in. Her eyelids fluttered as she attempted to lift her head, her muscles like rubber, her chin bobbing against her chest. When she finally managed to open her eyes, her vision was blurry, like she was wearing someone else's glasses, but she could see she was sitting with her legs splayed out in front of her, her cream-colored boots dirty with soot and dried blood, her bare knees scraped open.

That was right about when Harley realized her arms were tied behind her, a cold metal pole pressed against her spine, her shoulders aching from leaning forward.

 _God._ If she never woke up drugged and tied to something again, it would be too soon.

The last thing she remembered was falling toward the earth, impossibly fast, fear starting to creep in as she realized she might have taken a gamble that wasn't going to pay off.

But then the Batman swooped down, caught her, saved her. Harley's triumph had been short-lived. He knocked her out as soon as they reached the ground, and it seemed someone used chloroform on her since then, not wanting her to wake up quite yet.

It took a while before Harley was able to lift her head and look around. Her eyes narrowed to an annoyed squint as she observed she was in some kind of control room. A bank of old computers from the early 80s covered the wall across from her, and to her right was a control desk beneath a large viewing window, through which she could see the exposed rafters of a factory.

Computers from the 80s.

An abandoned factory from that period.

Her wrists bound with plastic zip ties, not the Batman's black cables.

Harley closed her eyes and took a deep breath as two pairs of footsteps entered the room behind her. She already knew who it would be.

"Hello, Harley," Roman greeted her sourly.

Harley lifted her head to meet Roman Sionis's gaze, her lip curling. He was looking worse for wear, his shirt missing buttons and sporting a few bloodstains. More satisfying was the fact that one of his eyes was red and swollen shut, the other blackened, his chin bruised, his cheek split open, his nose broken—Harley's' good work.

She turned her attention to the figure behind him. Looking well-put-together in a tailored suit, his beard neatly trimmed and hair swept back from his face: Jonathan Crane. He stood beside the control desk, his eyes darting between her and Roman nervously.

Harley's mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. She'd known Crane would turn on her, but she hadn't expected this level of betrayal. She hadn't expected to see her old colleague standing over her while she was tied up on the floor, captive to a man who wanted to make her his _slave_.

Roman squatted down in front of her then, his bruised face ugly as they stared at each other. He was pissed off. That was obvious. But beneath that, and more importantly, he was _desperate_.

Harley smirked.

"So, here we are, once more," Roman sighed, his eyes drifting over Harley's face, ugly and bruised as well, she was sure.

"I don't know about that," Harley croaked, her throat dry and scratchy. "I don't remember you looking like someone beat the shit out of you last time."

"I'll admit," Roman countered smoothly. "It's been a trying evening. And Black Canary certainly did a number on you."

Black Canary.

_Dinah._

But Harley couldn't think about that right now.

"So, what's next?" Harley sighed, her eyes drifting closed as she fingered the plastic zip-tie binding her wrists, nudging it experimentally. "Do you still want me _out of the way…_ or are we back to torturing me into being your _girlfriend_ again?"

She opened her eyes to see Roman squinting at her thoughtfully out of his one good eye.

"I want to negotiate," he explained, offering her a bitter smile.

 _"Negotiate_ ," Harley laughed weakly, her head loling back against the steel pole.

"Ed is in police custody," Roman explained. "He will tell them everything. Everything he knows about you and me, and about the Joker too." He paused for a moment. "I would like you to help me moderate this."

Harley's head fell back as she laughed again, a few helpless wheezes that made her throat ache.

"Are you _seriously_ asking for my _help?_ " she demanded.

Harly felt weak, beaten and broken, her body sore and mind fuzzy from the drugs and head trauma.

But _inside_ , Harley had never felt stronger.

She planted one foot and then the other, then pressed her back against the pole, using it for leverage to push herself to her feet. Her legs were wobbly, but she focused on the floor, solid beneath her feet, grounding her. She rose to her full height, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin.

Roman slowly rose to his feet, so he was eye level with her, his jaw tense.

"You know how to manipulate the media," he said tersely. "You can make Ed look like a lier before this gets out. Make a video demanding my ransom."

Harley managed to rotate the zip tie around her wrists to wiggle the nail of her index finger beneath the tab, picking at it, her eyes on Roman.

"We can coexist peacefully," Roman insisted.

"Peacefully," Harley sneered. "If you think that's what I want, you don't understand anything."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Roman demanded, growing impatient. "You have to want _something_. Everyone does. What can I _give_ you, Harley?"

Harley's face darkened, her eyes narrowing to a deadly squint. She leaned forward as far as her bound wrists would allow, plucking at the joining tab relentlessly with her nail.

"There is _nothing_ you can offer me," she spat. " _Nothing_."

Roman lurched forward and grabbed a handful of her hair, his one open eye blazing as he sneered in her face.

"I don't understand you," he hissed, his nose centimeters from hers. "You'll work with _Ed_ but not me?"

He yanked her head back hard, a few blonde strands coming loose in his fist. But it only bolstered Harley's spirit, spurring her to pluck at the zip-tie more furiously.

" _Ed,_ who betrayed you," Roman continued bitterly. "Who is nothing but a _thief_ and a _copy cat_. Why him and not me?"

"You know, Ed said something once," Harley shot back breathlessly, her heart pounding in her neck. "How can someone so rich and powerful, someone as _dangerous_ as Black Mask… be so fucking _boring_."

"Boring?" Roman seethed, releasing her hair to grab her bruised face instead, his fingers digging into her sore cheeks, forcing her to face him. "I offer you _everything,_ and you call me _boring_!" He barked. He sounded unhinged. _Crazy._

"I don't like entitled _rapists_ either," Harley scowled, unfazed when his fingers dug into her cheeks harder.

Roman looked like he was going to say something when someone behind Harley cleared their throat.

"Uh, boss, the pilot says the jet's all fueled up," one of his henchmen announced, making Roman look up sharply. "He wants a word, though."

Roman's eyes darted back to Harley, searching her face for a moment while she glared back at him. Then he released her and stomped away, leaving Harley alone with Crane.

Harley stared at him across the room, loathing pulsing through her veins as she watched him hang back like the coward he was.

"You're pathetic," she spat, her nostrils flaring.

"I'm surviving," Crane countered darkly. "You _used_ me."

"What do you think _he's_ doing?" Harley snapped. "You think Black Mask respects you? That he won't kill you?"

Crane glowered at her in silence.

"If he kills me, that's it for you," she continued hotly, her eyes narrowing. "What else can you offer him, Jonathan?"

"Are you suggesting I have a better chance with _you_?" Crane demanded. "That I should free you?"

" _God_ no," Harley sneered, her eyes flashing as she leaned as far forward as she could. "You're going to _beg_ me to kill you by the time this is over, Jonathan." she snarled.

"Your narcissism knows no bounds, Harleen," Crane shot back bitterly. "You think you're unkillable," he sneered. " _Don't_ you."

Harley shook her head, her eyes on Crane all the while. "You're so _weak,_ Jonathan."

Crane's eyes widened, but before he could defend himself, Roman returned, tucking a phone in his pocket, looking very pleased with himself. He was joined by two meaty thugs this time, their suits and ties pristine, their ties straight and hair neatly clipped.

Roman stopped in front of Harley, folding his arms and offering that soft smile, which she no longer found sinister. Just _annoying._

"Have you got another master plan to regale me with?" Harley drawled, her eyes sweeping over the thugs. One of them was a former Lucky Hand guard by the look of them. The other generic Gotham muscle, the old school Costa Nostra kind.

"Ed's an unreliable witness," Roman replied cheerfully. "And there's no one else to corroborate his story. He'll be sent to Arkham, and I'll leave Gotham. I can speak to the police and the media via video call to clear all of this up. It's not as clean as I like, but it will do."

"Leave Gotham?" Harley's eyebrows arched, and Roman beamed back at her.

"My plane is waiting for us just outside the city," he explained. "With all this… _mayhem_ , it's no surprise those with the means to are leaving."

Harley pursed her lips, picking at the zip-tie tag harder until the nail of her index finger tore off.

She moved on to her middle finger.

"Have you been to the Cote d'Azure?" Roman asked, tipping his head to the side. "It's beautiful this time of year. What a wonderful place…" He moved closer to her, his smile softening. "For you to realize you belong to me."

Harley laughed in his face, a sharp incredulous bark deep in her chest.

"I have a surprise for you before we go," Roman continued, his one good eye dancing, making Harley's face darken as she tried to anticipate what was coming next.

She heard more henchmen outside the control room and judged there to be two guarding the door, another two farther away but moving closer. Grunting and struggling with something, exchanging words with the minions guarding the entrance before entering the room behind Harley.

They had someone with them, Harley realized, a hostage, someone who wasn't coming quietly.

Roman sighed happily and stepped away from Harley, making space for two new minions.

They were dragging a slim blonde girl between them, her arms pinned behind her back, her legs flailing, duct tape over her mouth.

She was wearing Black Canary's armor, but not the cowl.

Harley held her breath, trying not to react.

They had Dinah.

* * *

**A/N: Ooooooooooh**

**  
****I love Harley being a BOSS to a Roman & Crane. I love Pam vs. J bickering, and I just love Pam in general. And Ed is getting the Dark Knight interrogation-scene treatment cause I thought it would be fun. He's a little _edgier_ with Batman than he usually is, which I wanted to see. **

**The last two chapters are kind of a two-part finale. It started as one but got super long, so here we are. They are the usual 10k length.**

**Next: THE FINALE PART 1**

**Please review, beautiful people!**

**xo**


	24. Chapter 24

_Theme: Glass Animals - 'It's All Incredibly Loud' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0H8LHYMi4hzbwSzxp7DOxR?si=qx392QGHS16om3VB_Q4R5w)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/hyx0YftuyDU))_

* * *

The Pantomime

24.

* * *

Harley kept her expression entirely blank as Roman's thugs manhandled Dinah over to a steel pole directly opposite her. Dinah struggled fitfully, huffing through her nose and fighting to get free, her mouth covered with a rectangle of duct tape. One of the thugs backhanded her to subdue her but she shook it off, bucking against them as they wrestled her arms behind the pole.

It was only then that Dinah noticed Harley, her eyes narrowing to hateful slits as her wrists were zip-tied behind her, making Harley's spine straighten, indignation racing through her.

Dinah had been divested of her tool belt, along with her gloves and other accessories. She had two cuts on her swollen cheek, including a fresh bleeding one from the thug who backhanded her. Then there was a massive gash on her forehead near her hairline, courtesy of the cast iron skillet that destroyed her cowl, revealing her identity to Harley.

Harley swallowed thickly. Pushing Dinah to the back of her mind in favor of survival was no longer an option, not now that they were in the same room, both captives of the same twisted psychopath. Not with Dinah wearing the Black Canary suit, the evidence of their earlier fight all over her face.

And she was glaring at Harley like she _hated_ her.

Harley didn't understand. She didn't understand how all this time, it could be Dinah. Dinah, who was supposed to be off living her life somewhere, doing what she wanted. Roxy had been murdered, _taken_ from Harley, but Dinah had escaped the hell they were all living in, choosing herself, just as Harley had been aching to do.

But her choice hadn't been to escape—she'd chosen to turn on Harley. She'd _betrayed_ her.

"Aren't you happy?" Roman asked, offering Harley that soft smile of his. "I think a _thank you_ is in order."

Harley watched Roman accept the Canary cowl off one of his henchmen, examining it with a critical eye. He fingered the eye holes, peered inside the helmet, ran his finger along its seams. Then looked over his shoulder at Dinah.

"An electric shock to deter anyone from learning your identity," he observed, smiling. "Impressive. Too bad it only carries one charge."

Dinah's eyes eased out of their steadfast glare, recognizing the threat in front of her wasn't what she'd been expecting.

What had she been expecting?

How had she known to come there?

Roman handed the cowl to one of his henchmen and sidled up to Dinah, eyeing her curiously. She pressed herself back against the pole, her eyes wary.

"I didn't expect you to be blonde," Roman admitted, reaching up to finger her hair.

Dinah flinched away but Roman grabbed her face, just as he'd done to Harley. He shoved her head back against the pole, forcing her to look him in the eye as he peeled the tape off her mouth.

Her bottom lip was split and bleeding, swollen up to twice its natural size from where Harley had punched her earlier in the night.

"Pretty, too," Roman continued mildly, discarding the tape. He cocked his head to the side. "What's your name?"

Dinah swallowed and glanced at Harley over Roman's shoulder, her brown eyes alert, determined, not afraid. Not yet, at least.

"Little bird," Roman sang softly, squeezing Dinah's face to get her attention. "I asked you a question."

Dinah glowered at him silently, her nostrils flaring.

"What..." Roman lifted his free hand to her forehead and pressed a finger to the gash there, making Dinah suck in a startled breath. "Is…" He pressed harder, and her eyes bulged. "Your… _name_?" He dug his fingernail into the cut, scratching along the length of it, making it bleed fresh.

Dinah started to tremble violently, her jaw working, fighting not to cry out.

Harley's heart began thumping wildly as she watched Roman work on Dinah, the need to intervene overwhelming. She picked at the zip tie binding her wrists frantically, scratching it mercilessly.

"Ann," Dinah croaked. "My name's Ann."

"Ann," Roman smiled, smoothing away a drop of blood rolling down Dinah's forehead. "I'm Roman."

He released her face and took a step back. His eyes drifted over her, examining her armor while Dinah stared back at him, visibly rattled.

"Why are you here, Ann?" Roman asked calmly.

Dinah licked her swollen lip, her eyes darting to Harley again.

Harley wanted to communicate something to her—she just didn't know what that something was.

"I have sources," Dinah said, her voice low. "I know you've been trying to recruit Harley Quinn. I know your men only drive BMWs, and Harley was taken in one. I know your father owned this factory, and it was a good bet this was where you took her."

"Clever girl," Roman observed, a little bitterly. "And how do you know all of that?"

"Gotham thugs love to gossip," Harley jumped in, improvising.

"Not my men," Roman pointed out coldly. "Where's your boss tonight, Ann? Will he be joining us?"

Dinah didn't say anything, and when Roman moved in closer, she reared back, her nostrils flaring.

Harley looked around the room as she continued picking the tab on the zip-tie, her fingers bloody from her torn off nail. She clocked the henchmen, and the Glocks stashed in holsters at their sides, their postures and how they held themselves. She observed Crane hanging back— _coward_ — and she took note of the large viewing window to her right and the door behind her. She couldn't turn around, but she guessed a single door, propped open. Two men out in the hall were standing watch. Probably a mix of Lucky Hand thugs, Cosa Nostra, and Russians like the four in the room with them. There were probably others in the building, guarding the entrances and exits.

She started to make a plan.

"Ann," Roman said quietly. "You should know I prize obedience. If you answer my questions, things won't have to get…" He ran his thumb over Dinah's swollen bottom lip, pressing the cut where it was split. " _Messy_ ," he sneered.

"He's at the MCU," Dinah breathed, her eyes on Roman's hand as it moved to her shoulder. "They caught the Riddler. He knows where the Joker is."

"I see," Roman nodded, running his palm down Dinah's arm.

Harley scratched furiously at the zip-tie until her middle nail cracked, making her fingers slippery with blood. She moved onto her ring finger, her heart pounding.

"Who made this suit for you, Ann?" Roman asked, his hand still moving up and down Dinah's arm while she leaned away from him, her eyes closing. "This is military-grade technology," he observed. "And expensive."

He grabbed Dinah's face again, forcing her to look at him.

"Who is the Batman?" Roman demanded quietly.

Dinah blinked hard, her jaw tense as she stared back at him.

"I don't know," she lied.

Harley knew it was a lie, and Roman did too.

He sighed fitfully and released her to rake a hand through his black hair, thinking.

"Alright," he nodded, talking to himself. "We're running a little short on time but… the Batman's identity?" He flashed Harley a smirk. "That's worth the risk, don't you think?" He chuckled to himself. "Besides, Ed loves to talk, he'll keep him busy for a while."

He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the black case he'd had the night of the fundraiser, making Harley's blood run cold.

"Let's start again, Ann." He pulled the scalpel from its case, Dinah's eyes growing wider as its blade glinted under the control room's dim lighting. "Where did this suit come from?"

"I don't know," Dinah lied, breathless, her eyes on the scalpel.

Roman smiled, his attention shifting to her shoulder. "So be it, little bird."

Harley watched, undeniably intrigued as Roman palmed Dinah's upper arm and shoulder, prodding and picking until he found what he was looking for. The scalpel slid beneath her suit easily, and he used the blade to pry off a large segment of the Canary armor, revealing Dinah's arm beneath, toned and pale, from her shoulder to just above her elbow.

Roman passed the piece of armor to a henchman, who squinted down it, bemused.

"Moving plates," Roman looked at Dinah. "That must make you more susceptible to knives and gunfire." He cocked his head to the side. "Who is the Batman, little bird?"

Dinah narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath, stealing herself for what she knew was coming next.

"Alright," Roman nodded, smiling, almost kindly. "You tell me when you're ready to stop, okay?"

Dinah released a shuddering breath when he ran his finger down her bicep, tracing a path there.

The nail of Harley's ring finger split, but she didn't stop, the need to stop Roman pooling in her chest like liquid lead.

Dinah bit her bottom lip when Roman cut her, a horrible whine getting stuck in her throat as he sliced a six-inch incision down her arm. Blood streamed from the wound, pooling in the armor at her elbow, but she didn't cry out, her lips pinching together stubbornly as she panted through her nose.

"Have you ever seen a deer skinned, Ann?" Roman asked, prodding the cut experimentally while Dinah squeezed her eyes shut and hissed through her teeth. "It's a remarkably similar process for human beings."

He laid the scalpel's blade against her arm again, at the top of the incision he'd made, watching Dinah's face carefully.

"Who is the Batman?" he asked calmly, his voice low.

Dinah started panting loudly, the anticipation of what was coming next making her panic.

Roman seemed to take that as a cue that she wasn't going to talk, and he pushed the blade beneath her skin, slowly drawing it down the length of her arm, slowly _flaying_ her.

Dinah squeezed her eyes shut like she hoped to shut out the pain if she couldn't see it. Then her head fell back, crashing into the steel pole, a ragged scream ripping out of her throat as she cried out in agony.

Harley's heart was racing, adrenaline pounding through her body as she panted and clawed at the zip-tie tab.

She felt it _SNAP._

The zip-tie fell away, her bloodied hands free.

"Stop!" Harley cried out, prompting Roman to freeze.

He rotated around slowly, eyeing Harley curiously while Dinah panted and heaved behind him, blood streaming down her arm as she leaned against the pole to stay on her feet.

"Something you'd like to say, Harley?" Roman frowned.

"She's _mine_ ," Harley snarled, keeping her arms behind her back.

His eyebrows rose, a look similar to the one he'd worn when she promised to hunt the Joker sneaking into his eyes.

"You want her to talk?" Harley spat. "Let me do it."

Part of her was being honest. Part of her wanted to hurt Dinah, make her squirm and _suffer_.

But Harley also wanted to save her.

Roman edged closer, eyeing Harley warily, undoubtedly intrigued.

"That's very tempting," he admitted. "But you don't seriously think I can trust you, do you?"

"Call it a favor," Harley suggested drily.

"How about a compromise," Roman chuckled, stopping in front of her. "You can have her after I'm done."

Harley looked over Roman's shoulder at Dinah. Her breathing was stabilizing as she pushed past the pain, recovering quickly. Good.

Harley needed her.

"Or maybe we bring her with us," Roman suggested, ducking down so they were eye level, smiling. "Then you can play with her whenever you want."

Harley caught Dinah's eye, her expression grim, determined.

Dinah's eyes widened, realizing what was happening. She nodded once to show she was ready.

"So, what do you say?" Roman was still smiling as Harley's eyes darted back to his, excitement racing through her body, making her toes point and flex in her boots.

"I think I'll pass," she sneered, then threw her head forward, viciously headbutting Roman.

He was too taken aback to stop her when she ripped the scalpel out of his hand and lurched forward, stabbing him in the gut. Roman released a loud cry of pain, and all hell broke loose—the henchmen leaped to action, drawing their guns and shouting.

Harley used her grip on the blade in Roman's belly to swing him around, using him for cover as she added a few more steps to her plan. She ripped the scalpel out of his body and shoved him to the floor, then threw herself into a summersault, ducking and rolling and landing on her knees at Dinah's feet.

Dinah held out her arms behind her, and Harley slashed the zip-tie binding her wrists, freeing her before she hopped to her feet.

Dinah swung her arms forward, her eyes sweeping the room, taking stock of henchmen as Harley did the same.

They exchanged a quick look, silently agreeing to divide and conquer as Roman's thugs closed in, forcing them back-to-back.

Dinah took on the goons behind her while Harley lunged at the first thug to come for her, stabbing him in the throat with the scalpel. When she took on his partner, disarming him quickly and turning his gun back on him, shooting him in the face.

She spun around to find Dinah had disarmed one of the other two henchmen, with two more out in the hallway sneaking in. Harley shot at the thugs as they stepped into the control room, hitting one in the shoulder and the other in the gut when the gun was kicked out of her hand.

Harley whipped around, scowling as she watched Dinah thrust the heel of her hand into her opponent's face, breaking his nose.

"No killing!" Dinah insisted.

"Where's the fun in that!" Harley snapped.

The thug she'd shot in the shoulder took a swing at her, which she ducked easily. Harley punched him in the shoulder where she'd shot him, making him howl in pain, and giving her an opening to drop to the ground and kick his ankles out from under him, sending him sprawling flat on his back. Harley leaped back to her feet and stomped down on his face, hearing the _crunch_ of something breaking and his pathetic gurgle.

Then she saw Dinah was on the backfoot, two former Lucky Hand guards getting the better of her when injured.

Harley looked around for a weapon, her eyes settling on a wooden plank when she spotted Roman sneaking out of the control room with Crane propping him up. She scowled and snatched up the plank, her eyes darting back to Dinah just in time to see her take a blow to the face.

_Fuck_.

Moving quickly, Harley ran up behind the bigger thug and swiped at his head with the plank of wood, knocking him out for the count. She smashed him in the face twice more for good measure, and when she looked back up, Dinah had the last goon playing defense. _Good enough._

Harley dropped the plank and sprinted out of the control room, finding herself on a metal platform looking down on an old factory that hadn't been used in years. The platform cut across the factory floor like a bridge, leading to a bank of offices, where Crane helped Roman.

Harley took off after them, blood rushing in her ears, the old metal creaking and whining unhappily under her heavy footfalls as she closed in. She was weaponless and she didn't have a plan. All she knew was she wanted to _hurt_ that motherfucker Crane, and Roman…

Harley had something _special_ in mind for Roman.

Roman limped ahead while Crane stopped short, spinning around to face her, wearing his scarecrow mask. He held up his arm as Harley lunged for him, spraying her in the face with a burst of fear toxin.

Harley's vision blurred and her knees went weak, and she staggered back as the scarecrow mask morphed before her very eyes. Maggots slithered through the rough canvas and the eyes gleamed orange, the world around her vibrating violently, disorientating. Harley collapsed to her knees as the nightmare consumed her, the hallucination reminding her of the clown faces she'd seen at the Iceberg Lounge. And like that time, she knew it wasn't real.

" _You are the one who will beg for death,_ " the Scarecrow's voice cut through the nightmare, a low horrific growl.

It was _supposed_ to be a nightmare, it _looked_ like a nightmare, but Harley wasn't afraid.

Harley blinked hard, the maggots fading and the orange eyes dimming to Crane's strikingly pale blue. The room around her was still shaking, but the Scarecrow mask came back into sharp focus. Not a nightmare: just a burlap sack and a piece of rope

" _You_ are the weak one, _Harleen."_ It was Crane's voice this time, not the Scarecrow.

That irritating little _shit_.

Harley scowled and hopped to her feet, embracing the lingering effects of the fear toxin as she lurched forward and ripped the burlap sack of Crane's head.

He froze up, his hair rumpled and eyes wide, shocked. _Afraid._

"What did you—"

Harley punched him in the face, a satisfying jab that made him stagger back, his hands flying up to cover his nose. She marched after him, relentless, punching him in the ear, then driving her knee into his balls.

He wheezed and collapsed to the ground, gasping in pain.

Harley fell on top of him, grabbing his hair to hold his head in place before she decked him again, her scabbed knuckles bleeding fresh. The room was still vibrating around her, but Crane was in perfect focus. Her wrath wasn't emotional or personal. She wasn't at the end of her rope—she was just _really_ fucking done with his _bullshit_.

A hand closed around her upper arm and dragged her backward.

Harley landed on her back, sprawled out, the metal grate digging into her spine as she tipped her head back to look up at her attacker upside down.

It was Dinah, breathing hard and looking dazed, her flayed arm bleeding badly.

Harley groaned and pulled herself up to sitting, blinking rapidly as the world swayed around her, head injuries, fear toxin, and exhaustion forcing her to pause and take a deep breath before she could drag herself to her feet.

She glanced down at Crane—he was unconscious, his face beaten bloody, a tooth chipped—and then she turned to Dinah.

"We have to get Roman," Harley insisted.

Dinah planted her feet, her arms swinging up into an attack pose.

"No, Harley," she shook her head, her expression grim. "I have to take you in."

Harley's eyes widened, struggling to reconcile the familiarity of even briefly being on the same side as Dinah with the knowledge that this was Black Canary standing across from her. And Black Canary still wanted to see Harley Quinn in jail.

_Dinah_ wanted Harley Quinn in jail.

Harley snarled in frustration and opened her mouth to defend herself. She wanted to insist that Dinah was being _unfair_.

But before she could get the words out, something _huge_ burst through the front of the factory below them.

It was a semi-truck, and on the side, someone had painted _'We Put the Cute in Execute & the Hot in Psychotic!' _Harley already knew what was coming. She threw herself to the floor, covering her ears a split second before the front of the semi exploded in a fireball that nearly blew the roof off, engulfing the building in flames.

* * *

A seventy-plus foot-long semi-truck speeding through Gotham's Eastside was hardly inconspicuous, regardless of if it had _'We Put the Cute in Execute & the Hot in Psychotic!_' painted on the side and the Joker behind the wheel.

In the passenger seat with her phone out, Pam was playing navigator as they turned into Gotham's Oldtown district of warehouses and factories. Few were in working order, thank God, their smoke-stacks little more than a death sentence for the planet.

"Turn right," Pam announced, her eyes darting between the phone in her hand and the road ahead, the cab rattling around them as the Joker used both hands to turn the massive wheel, the tendons in his forearms standing out. His brow was furrowed, and he was prodding the scars inside his cheek with his tongue relentlessly, _twitchy_ to get to Harley.

"It's right there," Pam said, pointing straight ahead.

They were on a wide boulevard lined with gloomy warehouses, a large factory looming two blocks ahead. A tall red brick wall topped with barbed wire circled the property, which appeared to be composed of an office block and the factory itself, more huge smokestacks protruding from its roof.

"You think he's got people watching down here?" Pam asked, squinting at the passing warehouses.

"Mm," the Joker sneered as he squinted out the windscreen. "I _guess_ we'll find out."

"Well, fuck me and throw me in a river," Pam muttered.

When they were a block away, the Joker slammed on the breaks, the entire semi skidding to a stop— _incredibly_ indiscreetly. Its backend flew up and banged into the cab, making the whole thing shake so violently Pam was nearly thrown out of her seat.

She turned to glare at the Joker, who had already kicked his door open.

"What the fuck happened to 'I've driven one of those things before'?" she demanded.

"I _have_ ," he snapped, grabbing a black backpack off the floor as Pam pushed her door open. "But uh… last time, I didn't so much _park_ as…"

" _Crash_?" Pam suggested with a sneer.

They circled to the back of the semi's trailer, each of them opening one of the massive doors to reveal a ramp with the stolen, supposedly fast car tucked behind it, a little red Corvette Pam judged to be a remnant of the 90s.

The Joker loped forward to lower the ramp while Pam squatted down to rifle through the backpack of supplies they'd brought, including a nickel-plated handgun, which was sure to be more effective than the flare gun she still had tucked in the EMT uniform's pocket.

Pam _hated_ guns, and she didn't know how to shoot, but she figured being armed with a gun was better than not as her eyes swept the street, which was only dimly lit in the yellow glow of a few lone lamps.

The Corvette rolled backward down the ramp while Pam and the Joker waited, the Joker vibrating with nervous energy, Pam's hand clenching and unclenching restlessly around the gun's grip.

Once the car was on the street, the driver's door opened and Buddy the mentally ill clown stepped out, his eyes wide and vacant.

"C'mon, _Buddy_ ," the Joker coaxed, smooth and charming. He slung an arm around Buddy's neck and guided him back to the semi's cab. "Let's get you all uh… set up to _drive_."

Pam rolled her eyes and set about closing up the back of the truck, not an easy task when her left arm was still aching furiously, a few Ibuprofen and plenty of determination the only things keeping her going.

Then she slid behind the Corvette's wheel, chucking the backpack in the passenger seat before she got herself situated, her hand flexing on the gear shift as she mentally prepared herself for what was coming next.

She pulled up alongside the cab while the Joker exchanged a few evil but necessary words with Buddy, then slammed the door on him. They'd left Buddy with an old alarm clock on the dashboard, which would tell him when it was time to start driving.

Driving to his fiery death.

Unfortunately, Pam didn't have time to worry about what not giving a shit about Buddy meant for her mortal soul.

Once the Joker's door was shut, Pam downshifted and laid her foot on the gas, the car purring quietly as they took off up the street toward the Janus Plant. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, similar to how she's felt at the beginning of the night in the ambulance. This was different, though. There was more on the line, with many more maybes and uncertainties at play. Pam knew this was the part Harley 'loved,' but she couldn't find a damn thing to enjoy about this sense of dangling off a cliff's edge, not knowing if or when the line tethering her would snap.

Pam was ready for this fucking night to be _over_.

The Joker was digging through the backpack, arming himself with a gun with a long magazine that looked like the firearm Harley always preferred, and one extra round of ammunition. Pam personally would have liked to see something a little bit more elaborate, and she couldn't decide if she was relieved or horrified when J tucked a fresh grenade in his back pocket.

Fucking _hell_.

The entry gate to the Janus plant was standing wide open, wide enough that Buddy would be able to slide in unscathed in less than ten minutes. Inside the gate was a large gravel parking lot, empty aside from four sleek black BMWs parked outside the factory's main entrance, guarded by two suited-thugs.

Black Mask was in there, and he had Harley with him.

Pam pulled up alongside the high brick wall, out of the thugs' line of sight, turning the car off before she looked at the Joker expectantly. He'd not reapplied his warpaint, which struck Pam as odd. Overall, he looked like he'd recently taken a trip through a tornado, his hair wild and clothes destroyed, his face bruised and bloodied.

"I should come with you," Pam announced impulsively. "What if someone kills you and Harley's stuck with Roman?"

The Joker snorted, shooting her an amused look as he passed her a walkie talkie from the backpack.

_"_ _That's_ not gonna happen," he announced, cocking a paint-smeared eyebrow with such certainty that Pam groaned at the overconfidence. "You circle, _keep_ movin'," he instructed, swiveling two fingers to make his point. "Keep an eye out for the Bat. I'll tell ya when it's time."

Pam nodded uncertainly, prompting the Joker to duck down, forcing her to meet those dark, unsettling eyes of his.

_"_ _Red?"_ he raised one _exceptionally_ patronizing eyebrow. "We gonna have a _problem_?"

"Oh, fuck off and get Harley, you jackass," Pam snapped, glaring back at him.

The Joker narrowed his eyes and searched her face for a moment, his tongue sneaking out to swipe over his bottom lip. Then he muttered something discontented under his breath and kicked his door open, hopping out without another word. Pam craned her head out the window to watch him take off around the brick wall, a purple and green streak loping across the gravel lot.

She sat back and let out a long breath, trying to center herself and calm her racing pulse. There hadn't been much time to practice meditation of late, not just since she returned to Gotham, and not for a long time before that. But she gave it a shot now, closing her eyes and focusing on her breath, manifesting a world in which Harley was safe and happy and not exhaustingly worried about everything.

But Pam wasn't as focused as she used to be, and with a few minutes of quiet after a night of non-stop action and noise, her mind drifted to that moment behind the ambulance earlier in the evening, when Penny the EMT died.

But she hadn't just died; she'd been _killed_.

"Shit," Pam hissed, rubbing her palms on her legs like she was trying to wipe something away. There _was_ something there, something glittering beneath her skin. Something that was both different and the same, both repellent and _powerful_. Something that felt like Penny, lingering there all night.

Pam reminded herself that there hadn't been time to deal with Penny, that Harley would have done the same thing with a gun or a knife if she'd been in the same situation. Hell, the Joker would have stepped forward to kill Penny if Pam hadn't done it. She was always going to die.

It was reasonable. _Rational._

Pam did _not_ meet to justify her actions to herself or anyone else.

Needing to distract herself, Pam thumbed on the ignition, preparing to _circle_ and keep an eye out for the Batman as instructed when Buddy and the semi went shooting past behind her, drawing her attention out the back windscreen.

The back of the semi disappeared into the factory lot, and Pam took a deep breath, bracing herself, and hoping to God Harley was nowhere near the ground floor.

There was a jarring crash of wood splintering and brick and mortar crumbling when the semi collided with the factory's front. Then a moment later, the bomb in the cab detonated in a roaring explosion that Pam felt in her bones, rattling the street around her, making her hair stand on end, and filling her ears with white noise.

* * *

Dinah managed to cover her ears a split second before the bomb in the semi-truck went off, the cab exploding in a massive fireball that engulfed the entire floor of the factory. Heat rushed past the metal platform she and Harley were braced on, making it tremble and creak unhappily beneath their feet.

Dinah's hair whipped around her face, her ears ringing so loudly she felt deaf as flames licked around them, climbing up the factory walls. She blinked hard, trying to get her bearings, her vision swimming, and her body aching, especially the patch of missing skin on her arm.

She let her hands fall from her ears and looked up to see Harley rise to her feet smoothly, unaffected by the blast itself, but off-kilter and blinking hard. Concussed and injured, like Dinah was.

Most of Harley's warpaint had been wiped away, her eyes circled in smears of gray, partially covering a black eye, while other bruises were visible through patches of white paint. Her lips were stained red, and dried blood coated her upper lip and chin. Her forehead was split open, blood crusted into her eyebrow, her arms bruised and scraped, her knees bloodied.

She turned on Dinah, betrayal flashing in her blue eyes, making Dinah's chest tighten painfully as she realized Harley had thought they were working together, side by side. That Harley wanted Dinah's help taking down the man who hurt both of them and countless others. Roman Sionis was a threat, there was no doubt about it, and a bad one at that…

But Harley was the greater danger, which might be the best opportunity Dinah got to take her down.

She told herself not to be affected by the wounded look on Harley's face, that it wasn't real, that this was Harley Quinn, a psychopath, a villain, a murderer, manipulating her again.

"I just saved your _life!_ " Harley spat, her bloodied face twisting bitterly.

"You don't care about my _life,"_ Dinah scoffed, rising to her feet. "You needed _me_ to save _yourself!"_

Harley's eyes widened like she was shocked or even hurt. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was an act. It didn't matter.

Dinah raised her arms again, preparing to attack and fighting off the painful twist of _guilt_ stabbing at her heart.

But Harley hesitated, something Dinah had never seen her do before. Then her eyes narrowed stubbornly, and she planted her feet, raising her arms to mirror Dinah, just as she used to do when they sparred together.

Dinah had fought Harley as Black Canary more times than she could count. Harley always rushed headfirst into a fight, fighting impulsively with raw emotion and a handful of moves she'd picked up along the way. Dinah had never felt guilty or wrong about fighting or hurting or subduing Harley before, and Harley had shown no compunction about wanting her dead.

But this was different. Dinah felt raw and exposed without her face covered, and her eyes began to sting under Harley's intense, emotional glare.

Harley made the first move, leaping forward and lashing out with her fist. Dinah blocked it and retaliated immediately, getting Harley on the backfoot. They fell into a familiar rhythm, punching and kicking, blocking and ducking, slipping right and left, dodging attacks.

Dinah realized Harley was pulling her punches, but instead of taking advantage of it, she found herself holding back too. She let Harley get the upper hand before taking it back again, a painfully familiar but pointless dance like they were putting off the inevitable, and neither of them wanted to face it.

Then Harley lurched forward, grabbing Dinah's arms and slamming her up against the platform's railing, the heel of her hand accidentally grinding against the open wound on Dinah's arm.

"I _cared_ about you!" Harley hissed, her eyes darting around Dinah's face wildly. "I _protected_ you!"

"You manipulated me!" Dinah spat, the guilt in her chest twisting horribly. "You're a _psychopath_!"

She shoved Harley hard in the chest, making her stagger back, her eyes wide.

Harley hesitated again, looking confused while Dinah leaned against the railing, trying to catch her breath, the flames around them blazing bright, filling the air with smoke.

Dinah tried to center herself, telling herself not to be affected by this act. She tried to find the physical and emotional strength to carry on, to take down her enemy. But before she could move, Harley was on top of her again.

Harley snarled like a wild animal and dug her fingers into the rectangle of flayed flesh on Dinah's arm, intentionally vicious, making her shriek in pain.

"I _trusted_ you _!_ " Harley yelped, her voice cracking. "How could you _do_ this to me!"

Dinah was horrified to discover tears were stinging in her eyes, her jaw wobbling. She headbutted Harley before she could see, making Harley cry out as she stumbled back. She caught herself on the railing opposite, the flames growing around them, lighting up her beautiful, battered face.

Harley bared her teeth, her eyes blazing and shoulders heaving, reminding Dinah of the day she went hunting for Victor and the barely contained rage that lived inside her.

Harley Quinn thrived in violence. She craved it and sought it out, she bathed in like others bathed in the light of the sun. She would chase it down and encourage it in others, delighting in the chaos she created.

It didn't matter if she'd cared about Dinah or if she felt betrayed.

Harley Quinn was a _murderer,_ and she would continue killing people until she was locked away.

Dinah jumped into a defensive position, the soles of her boots growing hot with the fire crackling below them.

The platform beneath her whined reluctantly, followed by a metallic screech as the section she was standing on gave way on one side, falling into the flames below and taking Dinah down with it.

She slid down the length of the platform on her belly, impossibly fast, blood roaring in her ears as she grappled for something to hold onto.

Harley dove headfirst after her, grabbing Dinah's outstretched arm and catching herself on the now-vertical railing. Dinah frantically grasped Harley's forearm so they were linked together, her legs flailing wildly above the flames below.

The threat of death by fire was viscerally chasing Dinah's heels when she met Harley's eyes, making it hard to form a coherent thought. But Harley's eyes were burning bright, focused only on Dinah. She braced herself against the railing, the tendons in her arms standing out as she hauled Dinah up.

The next few seconds happened too fast and too slow at once. Harley pulled Dinah onto the railing below her, and once she was sure she was stable, she climbed back up to the remaining section of the platform where Crane was still flat on his back, unconscious. Dinah climbed up after her, shaky, dizzy, not quite sure she was still alive until the moment she collapsed beside Harley, who was laying on her back, panting and coughing, the smoke thick around them.

Dinah pushed herself up on her elbows, a confusing torrent of emotions sweeping over her as she stared at Harley, failing to understand her, with no idea what she was supposed to do next.

There were a few long seconds where they just stared at each other, many things going unsaid until Harley looked away and hauled herself to her feet. She stopped to brace her hands on her thighs, swaying and coughing through the smoke, trying to pull herself together. When she managed to straighten up, she shot Dinah one last impenetrable look, her bloodied, soot-streaked face inscrutable. Then she backed up a few steps and spun around, taking off at a sprint toward the offices.

She was going after Roman, Dinah realized, and she didn't move to stop her.

Then above her, there was a crash through the ceiling, a blurry black shape swooping down through the smoke and flames, landing on the platform beside Dinah and Crane, a black cape swirling around him.

_Bruce_.

Dinah watched numbly as he secured a cable around Crane before offering her his gloved hand. She took it and stepped into the circle of his arms as the grappling hook above them activated, and they flew upwards to safety, leaving the fire to claim Harley Quinn and Black Mask below.

* * *

The Joker stayed low as he skirted the front of the Janus Plastic Plant, his brogues skidding through the gravel as he loped toward the offices attached to the factory's eastern side. His best guess for where Black Mask was keeping Harley, and Lonnie too.

If they _weren't_ there now, they would be pretty soon once the offices became the only part of the factory _not_ on fire.

He circled to the far side of the building, his eyes darting around wildly in search of an opportunity when he spotted a creaky old fire escape stretching upwards. He rocked back on his heels, his tongue wiggling over his bottom lip as he did some quick mental math, judging he had just enough time to get up there before _Buddy_ arrived to get the party started.

He jumped for the bottom rung, grunting as he yanked the creaky ladder down, its gears grinding noisily, making the fire escape tremble.

It was coming up to five in the morning, and the Joker had been running on adrenaline and nicotine for well over twelve hours by this point. It made him feel _wired_ and a little bit _crazy_ as he clambered up the shuddering structure, the metal barely clinging to the old factory's bricks.

Was this crazy? You _betcha_. _The Joker_ , racing to save his girl from a psychopath, and hoping, for once, that the Batman would just stay _home_.

Oh, you couldn't _make_ this shit up.

He smashed the window open at the top, clearing the sharp debris away with the butt of his gun before he folded his long body through. Inside, he found himself in a darkened hallway with a concrete floor, fluorescent lights shining at one end.

That one bad punch to the side of the head from the Batman left his ear ringing all night long, _non-_ stop. The Joker was used to a little tinnitus and _enjoyed_ it even, but this ringing made his balance off-kilter, making him blink hard to focus.

He poked his head around the corner to make sure no one was waiting there to kill him. But it was clear, just a long, brightly lit hallway lined with offices, a closed fire door at the other end leading into the factory itself.

It was all a bit too _silent_ , the Joker decided, licking his bottom lip a few times, looking for another opening, another moment of inspiration, an _urge_ to guide him. But the only urge he could find was the one _screaming_ at him to get to Harley. The same one that had been driving him all night, purring right along beside the adrenaline and the nicotine and the ear-drum damage. And standing there in the _silence_ , he started to get a little… _uneasy_ about Buddy's imminent arrival, and where exactly Harley would be when that bomb in the cab went off.

_"_ _Fuck_ ," he muttered roughly, loping forward, not quite ready to consider that they'd miscalculated, and Harley was about to be blown sky-high. The ferries all over again. Oh, she'd just _love_ that, wouldn't she…

But then the fire door banged open, and _Roman_ stumbled through.

He was clutching his stomach, his hands bloodied because someone had stabbed him in the _gut_ , his face bruised and swollen elephant-man style. Ooh, he was in _bad_ shape, and the Joker had no doubt Harley was responsible.

Thoughts of miscalculation and Harley's demise immediately vanished, and the Joker's mouth curled into a nasty grin as he watched Roman stagger forward a few steps, absorbed in his injury until he finally noticed the Joker.

Roman scowled, baring his teeth before he lurched into an open office, disappearing inside and slamming the door shut behind him.

Poor little _bunny_ was gonna try to hide.

The Joker was there to save Harley, but no one knew as well as he did that his girl didn't need _saving_. _She_ would want to see Sionis suffer, and the Joker was more than happy to help make that happen for her.

He loped up to the door Roman disappeared behind, banging on it with his fist, making it rattle in its frame.

"Romey!" he called, cajoling. "Why dontcha come out and _play_ , huh?"

There was a rattle of gunfire, and the Joker jumped back in time to miss a series of bullets passing through the door, hitting the wall on the other side of the hallway.

Shooting through a closed door, huh? Now _that_ was a desperate move.

He did a quick count—eight bullets in the wall—but who knew how many more rounds Sionis would have in there with him.

But before the Joker could reach for the grenade tucked in his front pocket, _Buddy_ arrived.

The entire plant shook when the semi-truck slammed into it, making the Joker grab the wall to stay on his feet. A second later, an explosion rocked the factory again, making J's already damaged ear warble in an oddly satisfying way.

The fire doors shuddered violently in their frame as flames engulfed the factory floor on the other side. Harley was in there, he was sure of it, but he was also sure she would be fending for herself _just_ fine.

The Joker kicked open the bullet-ridden door, gun drawn, preparing to shoot Sionis in a non-fatal kinda way so Harley could have her turn with him. But what he found in there made him pause, his eyebrows raising curiously.

It was a small room, and it smelled like _shit,_ actual _human_ shit. Meathooks were hanging from the ceiling, and a series of wooden crosses lining one wall, another wall laden with all manner of 'persuasive' instruments. Some were of the _vintage_ variety, some even older, some CIA and military-style toys. All of it collected and curated for the express purpose of delivering _pain._

_This_ , the Joker realized, was Black Mask's _torture chamber._

There was a small cage in the middle of the room on the floor, only big enough for a dog.

_Lonnie_ was stuffed inside that little cage, naked and doubled over on himself, contorted, and whimpering.

Sionis stood over him, struggling to stay on his feet, one hand pressed to his gut, the other pointing a gun at Lonnie's blonde head.

"I'll kill him," Roman snapped, spittle flying from his lips, _crazy_. "Let me leave, or I swear, _I'll kill him!"_

The Joker ignored the threat, opting to release a low whistle as he reexamined the torture chamber, keeping his gun trained on Roman.

"Jesus _, Romey_ , you don't fuck around, _do_ ya," he drawled, his eyes lingering on what he was pretty sure counted as a _flaying station_ in one corner.

"I'll shoot him!" Roman raged, his voice pitching higher, his arm trembling. "He's your secret weapon, isn't he? _Isn't he!_ " Roman bared those white teeth of his. "You won't be as _effective_ without him. Let me _leave_ , Joker!"

Lonnie started crying.

For half a second, the Joker considered killing Lonnie to prove a point. But ultimately, the urge to do it wasn't _there_. As much as the Joker loved to make a point, Roman was trying to use his ego against him to get a message across. And while the Joker may have had an ego the size of the sun—as Harley put it—he wasn't a man who could be easily manipulated. Certainly not by someone as predictable as Roman Sionis.

And he _definitely_ wouldn't be letting Roman go.

_"_ _The fucking Bat's here, J!"_ Red's voice crackled through the walkie tucked in his back pocket. _"Stop fucking around and get out here!"_

Roman's eyes widened, his nostrils flaring— _panicking_.

"So this is where it happens, huh?" the Joker drawled, strolling further into the room, smirking when he saw Sionis take a nervous step back. "This is where _Black Mask_ makes his human _toys_."

"You're _insane_ ," Roman spat, his voice ragged. "If the Batman's here, we _all_ need to leave!"

"Oh, we _will_ ," the Joker sing-songed. "I just gotta feeling you and me aren't gonna get another chance to talk." He raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Not once my _girl_ gets her hands on you."

"What do you want? What is it?" Roman sputtered. "What will it take? I'll—I'll give you anything!"

"How _predictable_ ," the Joker sighed. "Ya know, Eddie was _half-_ right about you. Boring? _Yes_." He hummed thoughtfully, his brow knitting together. "Dangerous, though? Ooh, I dunno, Romey…"

The fire doors out in the hall slammed open as someone burst through them, smoke, and the blaze's deafening roar in the factory flooding the hallway.

Harley flew into the room like a force of fucking nature, a hurricane of tangled platinum hair and torn, fluttering red silk. Her face and body were bruised and bloodied, her glacial eyes bright and wild as she skidded to a stop in her sooty white boots.

Not a squishy puddle, not a burnt-out husk, not a lifeless body.

Just _Harley_ in all her chaotic glory.

The Joker took a shot at Roman's hand, making him scream and drop his gun, losing a few fingers in the process.

With Roman momentarily subdued, the Joker grabbed Harley and yanked her close. His heart was suddenly pounding in his neck as she threw her arms around him, making a desperate sound in the back of her throat when their mouths collided sloppily. The Joker found himself suddenly dizzy, breathing too hard through his nose like he was hyperventilating as he groped her back and her waist and her hair, tasting the blood drying on her lips and the woody flavor of smoke in her mouth.

She pulled back abruptly, her hands flying up to cup his face, her eyes wide and so full of _feelings_ , making him feel _weird_ in a way only she was capable of doing.

_"_ _J, what the absolute fuck are you doing in there!"_ Red's voice raged from the radio in his pocket.

Her friend's voice brought Harley back to reality. She pivoted away from the Joker to Roman, who was slowly crawling toward his gun. Harley stomped forward determinedly, and the Joker was sure her face would be composed in that ice-cold _meanness_ he liked so much on her. She viciously kicked Roman in the face, making him scream as a spray of blood flew out of his mouth.

Harley scooped up the gun and tossed it to the Joker, who caught it and tucked it away neatly with his. Then he joined Harley in wrestling open Lonnie's cage, dragging the scrawny little bastard out while Roman lay groaning on the floor a few feet away.

Lonnie had a ball gag in his mouth, and he was wearing a soiled pair of tighty whities, his body covered in open wounds where stripes of skin had been removed from his arms and chest, following the path of some of his tattoos. But he was conscious and wide-eyed as he collapsed on the floor, his head bobbing weakly when Harley unbuckled the ball gag from his mouth and threw it at Roman's head with a scowl.

Red started shouting into the radio again, demanding they get their asses out of there.

"Get the fuck up, Lonnie!" Harley snapped.

Lonnie burst into tears, huge ragged sobs as he pulled himself up to his knees, looking as wretched as it was possible to be. He ignored Harley, staring up at J with a look in his eyes that was _far_ too similar to the way Harley looked at him just seconds earlier.

"I knew you'd come!" Lonnie sobbed, his face crumpling before he threw himself forward, flinging his arms around the Joker's legs. "I didn't talk, J! I swear, I didn't talk!"

The Joker looked at Harley, bewildered, and she flung her arm at Lonnie in an impatient gesture that made J sigh, understanding what she wanted him to do. He ducked down to grab Lonnie's shoulder, making his head tip back so he was looking up, breathing raggedly to stave off sobs.

"Ya did _good_ , Lonnie-boy," the Joker reassured him, squeezing his shoulder hard. "Ya did _real_ good, but uh, we gotta get outta here _now_. So…"

"So, get the _fuck_ up, Lonnie," Harley snapped, grabbing his elbow and hauling him to his feet with the Joker's help. He was wobbly and still crying, but he allowed Harley to drag one of his ropey arms over her shoulders to keep him on his feet. "God, you smell like shit," she wrinkled her nose.

The Joker turned his attention back to Roman, who was flat on his back on the floor, holding his mutilated hand against his chest, his breathing shallow as he glared up at them resentfully.

"What are you going to do?" he croaked when the Joker squatted down beside him, smirking.

" _Blood_ loss," the Joker purred, flashing him a toothy grin. "It's a _killer_."

Roman's nostrils flared in anger, but then Harley spoke up.

"We're taking him with us," she announced coldly. "I have something special in mind," she added with a sneer.

The Joker didn't need to hear more than that. He ducked down and hauled Roman up over his shoulder—fireman style, ironically enough. He grunted with the effort, adrenaline, and his own personal brand of freakish strength helping him rise to his feet and stagger after Harley and Lonnie as she snapped at him to stop being a pussy and get moving.

The blaze in the factory had made its way through the fire doors, filling the hallway with smoke that would be sure to kill them all at a later date if they didn't make a quick escape. Roman's weight made the Joker grit his teeth as he ran after Harley and Lonnie, palming his back pocket for the radio. Red was still raging through it—actually being a _little_ bit funny, though he'd never admit it out loud—once she gave him an opening, he snapped at her to get her ass over to the eastern side of the building.

Getting down the fire escape was a challenge that consisted of shoving Roman out the window so he landed on his back, groaning weakly. At the same time, Harley and the Joker helped Lonnie out with a fraction more delicacy but zero patience. Lonnie stopped crying, choosing to pant through his nose while he focused on climbing down with Harley keeping an eye on him.

The Joker decided _pushing_ Roman down each floor made the most sense, giggling each time he landed with a rattle and a pained groan.

Red zoomed up in the stolen red Corvette, hopping out as soon as it screeched to a stop.

"Jesus - fucking - christ!" she shouted, clapping her hands between each word. "Hurry the fuck up, you morons!"

Harley landed solidly on her feet, and Red immediately swept her up in a hug, squealing something girlish while Harley batted her away, insisting they celebrate later. Still complaining, Red ducked back inside the car to pop the trunk while Harley shoved Lonnie into the passenger seat, then spun around in time to see Roman land flat on his back in the gravel after falling a good ten feet from the fire escape.

The Joker jumped down beside him, giggling wickedly when Harley stomped on Roman's head, knocking him out for the count. Then she bent down to grab his ankles while the Joker grabbed him under the armpits, and together they carried him to the back of the car.

"Why the fuck isn't he dead?" Red demanded, leaning over the hood.

"Get in the car!" Harley snapped back at her, and Red scowled but slid behind the wheel nonetheless.

They swung Roman into the trunk and slammed it shut on him, then the Joker grabbed Harley's hand and tugged her toward the passenger seat. He ducked inside, elbowing Lonnie up onto the center console since the car didn't have a backseat, his legs ending up in Red's lap as he curled into the fetal position.

"Why does _'Anarky'_ smell so fucking bad?" Red scoffed, wrapping her hands around the wheel and the gearshift while Harley clambered in on top of the Joker, slamming the door shut behind her.

Red laid her foot down on the gas and downshifted, and they peeled out, the flaming factory starting to crumble behind them.

But they weren't home free yet.

No sooner were they out of the Janus Plant's lot and streaking up the long boulevard of warehouses when a _whirring_ sound started up.

Harley and the Joker both craned their heads around to look out the back window, already knowing what they'd see there.

The _Batpod_ drawing closer.

"Can we outrun him in this thing?" Harley demanded, looking at Red. _"Floor it!"_

Red winced and downshifted again, her eyes glued to the road ahead as the speedometer swung up and the engine revved.

There was a sharp buzzing sound behind them, like a giant magnet charging.

"Pam, _TURN!"_ Harley screeched, prompting Red to whip the wheel to the right so they went skidding around a corner.

A small rocket exploded in the street behind them, sending up a shower of asphalt.

The Batman pulled up behind them, unrelenting.

"Ah, fuck," Harley whined when he started gaining on them again.

"Flare gun, Red _, flare gun_ ," the Joker spat, shoving Harley away so she ended up half on the floor, half on his legs.

_"_ _Flare gun?"_ Harley demanded, bewildered.

Red fumbled in the EMT jumpsuit pockets bunched up around her waist until she found the orange plastic device. She passed it over with shaking hands while the Joker rolled down the window and twisted around to thread his arm and head out, _just_ in time to see the Batman getting ready to take another shot at them.

The Joker squinted out of one eye and pulled the plastic trigger.

A red-orange streak of light left the barrel of the flare gun with a _PEW!,_ lighting up the Batman's masked face for a split second before hitting the front wheel of the Batpod. It flew up off the street in a brilliant explosion of crimson sparks and black rubber, throwing the Batman to the curb.

The Joker fell back into his seat, feeling a little _woozy_ as Harley climbed back on top of him.

"Is that it?" Pam demanded. "Is he dead?"

"He's done for tonight," the Joker grunted, his hands sliding around Harley's waist of their own accord.

He tugged her flush against him and pressed his nose against her bruised shoulder, feeling her warmth, her blood pumping away beneath the surface, her life so much stronger than the mere mortals who rotated around her like planets around the sun.

He hummed and nuzzled her arm with his nose, his arms wrapping around her fully as she threaded her fingers into his hair and released a heavy breath like she'd been holding it in.

"Mm," the Joker grinned, his head tipping back so he could look up at her. "They're gonna start calling you the _unkillable_ Harley Quinn."

"Don't give her any ideas," Red huffed, making Harley laugh softly. "Where am I going?"

"The Narrows," Harley said immediately, her eyes focused on the Joker as she smoothed his sweaty hair back from his sooty face, offering him a soft smirk. "We need to have a little _chat_ with Black Mask."

* * *

**A/N: This was going to be one long 20,000-word chapter PLUS an epilogue, but I decided to split them up and stagger them instead.**

**I know everyone's probably swooning over the Jarley reunion at the end there, but for the sake of future installments, I wanna know what you thought of the Dinah x Harley drama.**

**I hope you have a good holiday season. The next chapter & a decent-sized epilogue are coming on 27 December, so I'm wondering who's gonna be around to read it… **

**_Next: The final chapter + an epilogue!  
_ **

**_Please review...._ **

**_xo_ **


	25. Chapter 25

_Theme: Blanck Mass - 'John Doe's Carnival of Errors' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/25mNuSBComNnejraU9HDue)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/TfHHog0OOPo))  
_

* * *

The Harlequin

25.

* * *

After his Batman-induced beating, the cops left Ed alone in the interrogation room for hours and hours and _hours_. It was more than a little insulting to think the cops just _forgot_ about him, but Ed reassured himself they were busy with the riots still ripping Gotham apart.

He tried to plot an escape, but the awful _dampness_ started to sneak in, and multiple concussions were making him too lazy and depressed to scheme properly. And then there was the threat of Blackgate or Arkham looming—one of them would be in his future if he didn't figure something out soon.

But as always, it was the _boredom_ that did the most damage. Pervasive, overwhelming, _painful_ , the boredom made Ed want to rip his own guts out or pry his fingernails off just for the sake of having something _interesting_ happen. He searched for little slivers of something to inspire him, pacing around the interrogation room, inspecting the mirrored glass, going through his pockets—anything was better than this. But there was nothing, and this time, he didn't even have Lee to keep him company and help him through it.

Harley and J would come for him, Ed reassured himself, over and over again. As far as he was aware, the squad was still in formation. Surely they all had to decide together that it was over?

They _had_ to come.

Eventually, two fat beat cops slapped a pair of handcuffs on Ed and dragged him back to a holding area. The sun had risen, and the number of occupants in the cells had dwindled, the police weeding out the vegans and liberals from the anarchists associated with Alexandra Kosov and the Joker. _Boring._

But _then_ something _finally_ happened. The cops stopped Ed in front of a holding cell, one of them fisting a handful of his ruined Prada shirt while the other unlocked the cell. Ed's eyes widened when he saw who was already curled up inside, beaten bloody and smelling of smoke, and probably in need of an Emergency Room, to be fully honest.

Jonathan Crane, aka the _Scarecrow_.

Excitement zipped around Ed's chest as he fantasized about Crane being an escape plan.

Harley would _totally_ plant a bomb in Crane's gut to help Ed escape.

That would be _so_ Harley.

Ed glanced over his shoulder at the beat cops trundling away as if they _hadn't_ just put him in a cell with a fellow known rogue. Although, frankly, as far as rogues went, Crane needed a lot of work. Yeah, he was in the Batman's bad books, but only just barely. And yeah, Crane had a mask and all, that had to count for something, Ed guessed. But still, he was just kinda… _lame._

And he _totally_ screwed over Harley and J.

Then again… Ed supposed he had too.

But there was obviously a _huge_ difference.

Crane was sitting on the floor in the corner, his arms folded on his knees, looking resigned like he'd already accepted his fate of being returned to Arkham.

"Well, _well_ ," Ed cooed flirtatiously, edging closer. "If it isn't the _Scarecrow_."

Crane looked up, his eyes narrowing. One of them was bruised and swollen, and the other had a burst blood vessel, which was actually really _really_ ugly, not the lovely pale baby blues Ed felt himself get a little lost in when they met in the Sionis crypt.

" _You_ ," Crane spat bitterly.

" _Me,"_ Ed grinned, basking in the attention. "Sooo, you seen Harley Quinn or the Joker lately?"

Crane scowled at him, revealing a chipped tooth. _Yeesh._

"How about Black Mask?" Ed pressed, raising an eyebrow. "You seen _Roman_ around lately…" he flashed Crane a rakish smirk, doing his best impression of the Joker. " _Jonny-_ boy?"

That seemed to hit a nerve because Crane's nostrils flared indignantly as he struggled to his feet. He actually had a pretty decent suit on, but it was trashed to hell, and he could hardly stand, so the whole effect was a little meh.

"Who beat you up?" Ed continued conversationally, and when Crane just glowered at him, Ed gasped happily, throwing a hand over his heart. "Aww, did _Harley_ beat you up?"

"Stop it," Crane spat, lowering himself onto a bench.

"So, what happened?" Ed tried again. "See, the last thing I remember is being at Roman's penthouse before BC knocked me out, then I woke up here." He sighed and shrugged helplessly. "The life of a supervillain, amiright?"

"I am not speaking to you, _Riddler_ ," Crane snapped, shooting Ed a glare through his ugly bloodshot eye. Then he turned his head away, determined to ignore Ed.

Well, _that_ wasn't going to do.

Ed rolled his shoulders back, swinging his arms to warm up as he glanced over his shoulder, checking for cops. But it was all clear.

In three long strides, Ed was towering over Crane, who looked up sharply, panic flashing across his beat-up face. Ed ducked down and grabbed Crane by the front of his suit jacket, hauling him up off the bench. Crane yelped as Ed swung him around and slammed him up against the cell's bars, holding him there easily.

" _Hiya,"_ Ed purred, waggling his eyebrows as Crane panted hard through his nose, his lip curling. "So, now that it's just us _girls_ ," Ed offered him a cheeky wink. "Why don't you tell me where Harley and J are."

"I don't know," Crane said through gritted teeth.

"Boo," Ed's bottom lip popped out performatively. He pulled Crane away from the bars and slammed him back up against them again, making him groan as his head cracked against the metal. "I'm gonna need you to be a _little_ more forthcoming, Jonny."

"I said, I don't _know_ ," Crane hissed.

"Why don't you start with what you _do_ know," Ed suggested patiently, raising his eyebrows.

Crane looked off to the side, huffing indignantly before he turned back to Ed.

"You know they were just _using_ you, don't you," he sneered. "They needed you, and now they don't. They aren't coming to _save_ you."

Ed's face darkened, Crane's words hitting just a _little_ too close to home. Not to mention… he _really_ didn't appreciate the suggestion that he needed _saving._

Just a little _assistance_ was all Ed required.

But in the meantime, he didn't need to listen to this reject _patronize_ him.

"Hmm," Ed ran his fingers down the torn lapel of Crane's blazer, examining the fabric before he met Crane's bloodshot eyes again. "You know what I think… _Jonny_?"

Crane's eyes widened, a very satisfying flicker of fear flashing across his face.

"I think… you're a little out of your _league_ ," Ed said softly. He released Crane's jacket in favor of wrapping both hands around his throat, his grip tightening as he held him up against the cell bars, choking him. "Don't worry, Jonny," Ed offered a saccharine smile as Crane gagged and pawed at Ed's hands. "Just a little _light_ breathplay between friends. All the boys say I'm _real_ good at it. I _promise_."

He waited until Crane's eyes rolled back in his head before letting go, his body sliding to the floor, unconscious and with a probably bruised trachea, but not dead.

Ed sighed fitfully and raked a hand through his limp hair, uncertainty about how this would all play out prickling at the back of his neck.

* * *

Everything was black.

Roman sucked in a shuddering breath as he struggled back to consciousness. He was on his back and his arms were tied beneath him, his shoulders straining, his mutilated fingers digging into his spine. His ankles were bound too, his lips fused with sticky tape. The tape was wrapped tight around his entire head multiple times, covering his eyes, his mouth, cutting into his cheeks, making him claustrophobic. The pressure on his swollen eye was a persistent agony, like his eyeball was about to be pushed into his skull.

Roman's first thought was that they'd buried him alive, and he started to panic in earnest, bucking and thrashing until his feet connected with something solid and carpeted.

Not a coffin.

The trunk of a car.

Roman breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm his racing pulse. The immediate fear of being buried alive began to subside, but pain and weakness crept in to replace it, and they were almost worse. His face was in agony, his brain pounding against his skull, the hole in his gut an acute, never-ending ache that made him feel like he was dying.

After being beaten by Harley at the penthouse, Roman needed an oxycontin and a few lines of cocaine to get him back on his feet. Those had long since faded from his system, leaving him excruciatingly aware of his injuries. As the adrenaline that came with panic began to recede too, he was left limp and weak, panting in the darkness, alone.

A key scratched in the lock, and Roman's breathing grew louder, more erratic, as he listened to the trunk creak open, a seagull's cry telling him he was somewhere near the water.

Blind and mute, he tried to cry out, to communicate. But he wasn't capable of anything more than a pathetic whine, the tape wrapped around his head silencing him completely.

"Up ya get, BM," a deep baritone rumbled.

A large pair of arms scooped Roman up, holding him like he was little more than a child. He was too weak to fight, so he let the large arms carry him, trembling and telling himself he was saving his strength for what would come next.

He was carried up several flights of stairs, more gulls screeching at each other in the distance, and when a sliding steel door clanged open, Roman realized he was at the warehouse in the Narrows, the Joker's high pitched giggle confirming it.

Fear and rage raced through Roman's veins, making his heart pound and his lungs constrict as he was unceremoniously dropped on the floor. He groaned against the tape covering his mouth and struggled to sit up, panting frantically through his nose while voices spoke around him.

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," a woman groaned indulgently. "I could kiss you, Frost. This pizza is _amazing."_

"The Narrows ain't known for its food, Pammy," the baritone, Frost, replied affably. "But they got some good pizza joints down this way."

The Joker giggled again, and this time he was joined by Harley Quinn's cheerful, tinkling laughter, making Roman's teeth grind together.

"Cut his blindfold off, will you, Frost?" Harley asked sweetly. "And check him."

"You got it, doc," Frost agreed.

"Don't feel like you gotta be _gentle_ , either," the Joker added drily, making Harley snicker.

A strong hand grabbed Roman's chin, holding him in place despite his weak attempts to wrench away. He yelped when a knife nicked his cheekbone, slicing through the tape covering the top half of his head. The tape peeled away, and blinding sunshine hit Roman square in the face, making his eyelids flutter as he tried to adjust to the light after so long in the dark.

Frost was big and orange with a bleached-blonde ponytail, and he checked Roman's pockets _ungently,_ as instructed. Roman swayed weakly as Frost palmed his suit jacket, finding the silver Zippo tucked in his breast pocket. The lighter Roman stole from the Joker the night of the Wayne Foundation dinner, a souvenir to remind him of his victory.

"Hey, boss," Frost twisted around, holding the Zippo up. "You lose something?"

Roman blinked hard, his vision solidifying around the edges as Harley strode up to him. She was bruised and bloodied, sporting an ugly black eye, one of her cheekbones swollen up unnaturally, her forehead split open. She should have been ugly, but her blue eyes were dancing and she was beaming. She was _happy_.

She took the lighter off Frost, sparing Roman half a look before she turned and swayed back to the Joker, who was leaning against a structural pole, looking just as destroyed and cheerful as Harley.

"Look what _I_ found," she sang, waving the lighter at him.

The Joker chuckled throatily, his tongue prodding his scarred bottom lip as he pushed away from the pole. He swept Harley up as she threw her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The Joker's hand slipped into Harley's hair, and she made a soft, happy sound when he deepened the kiss, tugging her closer.

Roman scowled. They were _taunting_ him.

"Oh my god, please _stop_ ," a woman with red hair complained. She was sitting on the green Chesterfield armchair with her legs kicked up, eating a slice of pizza. She wore a blood-spattered camisole with an EMT's jumpsuit bunched up around her waist, her left arm bandaged, and her feet bare. Other than the blood, she looked completely out of place among this group, but she seemed to have enough authority to make Harley pull away from the Joker.

He held out his hand, and Harley made a show of depositing the lighter in his palm. Then they shared a smirk and she twisted away, grinning while the Joker lit a cigarette and pitched back to lean against the structural pole.

He was settling in to _watch_ , Roman realized.

"Oh, Roman," Harley sighed, swaying up to him, smirking. "Who could have seen everything ending like this?"

Roman scowled at her, and she flashed him a smile before ducking down to pull a knife from her dirty white boots, making his eyes narrow.

"Now, it did occur to me that putting a _bullet_ in your head would be easiest, but that's a little too sudden," Harley continued cheerfully, gesturing with the knife as she drew closer. "This should be a _personal_ moment for you. You know, so it _really_ sinks in."

The Joker gave a rattly chuckle, exhaling a plume of smoke as he watched.

"Besides, look what you did to poor _Anarky_ ," Harley pointed to the dark green couch where someone was curled up under an unzipped sleeping bag, a blonde head poking out at the top.

Roman's eyes darted between Harley and Lonnie, already knowing where she was going with this.

"I think _Anarky_ deserves a little something for his troubles," Harley continued, her smirk turning wicked as she stood over Roman. "Don't you?"

Roman glared up at her, seething behind the duct tape covering the bottom half of his face.

Harley dropped into a sumo squat in front of him, cocking her head to the side as she searched his battered face, then lifted the knife, waving it between his eyes.

"You know, underneath it all," she sighed, examining the knife's tip before she met his eye again. "I think deep down, you know you want this too."

She offered him a sunny smile, then stabbed him in the shoulder, her eyes glittering as she used both hands to shove the blade in deeper until it was buried to the hilt.

Roman groaned raggedly, brokenly, his head falling back against the wall behind him as pain washed over him anew.

Harley grabbed a handful of his curling black hair, yanking him forward and leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

"Wanna know a secret?" she hissed, making Roman twitch violently. "I don't really _like_ Lonnie…" she chuckled. "Believe it or not… _that_ was for Black _Canary_."

She twisted the knife until he moaned, then she pulled back to smirk at him again.

"See, I'm not really a _flaying_ kind of girl," she admitted breezily. "But I do like… _symmetry_."

Roman panted through his nose as he stared at her, the blade embedded in his shoulder distracting as he tried to predict her next move.

"You didn't take anything from _me_ , Roman," Harley explained. "But you're an entitled _dick_ , and you did take something from _Samantha."_

Roman's eyes widened, searching her face frantically, which she seemed to delight in, her eyes dancing wickedly.

"The difference between us is I don't need a _torture chamber_ or a bunch of money to take something from you," she offered him a smile that was almost pretty, see-sawing between darkness and light. "Here, let me show you…"

She dove forward to grab Roman's head with both hands, shoving him back against the wall. Roman tried to wiggle free, squealing as Harley angled one thumb in front of his eye, then thrust the digit into the socket. He screamed against the tape, feeling her thumb wiggle around for one horrifying moment before she ripped his eyeball out of his skull, the optic nerve _snapping_.

Blood poured down Roman's face as he howled and writhed, his body convulsing helplessly, entirely at her mercy _._

Harley straightened up and dropped the remains of his eyeball on the floor by her feet. Then she folded her arms and stood over him, waiting.

Roman tipped his head back to peer up at her through his one remaining eye, sobbing and whining, drained and shaking pathetically as he again tried to anticipate her next move. Would she take him apart piece by piece? _Removing_ parts of him by hand until there was nothing left?

She smiled ruefully. "Hey, Pam, come here."

The woman on the armchair dropped her pizza crust in a grease-stained box and hopped to her feet, wiping her fingers on the legs of her jumpsuit as she padded barefoot over to them. She stopped at Harley's elbow and squinted down at Roman curiously.

"This is Pam," Harley explained, jerking her thumb at the woman.

Roman's remaining eye darted between them nervously, trying to follow what was happening.

Harley clasped her hands together girlishly and bent forward, her smirk growing.

"Some people call Pam… Poison _Ivy_ ," she explained, waggling her eyebrows.

Roman's heart was already thundering wildly, but it began to race like it was trying to escape his chest now. He stared up at the woman, Pam— _Poison Ivy—_ remembering the tall tales and myths he'd heard from the Lucky Hand and Gotham's other thugs. He fell back against the wall, pressing himself against it, hyperventilating.

"Should we take his gag off?" Harley wondered.

"Why?" the woman sneered. "Why does _he_ deserve to speak?"

Harley beamed and grabbed the woman's hand. They exchanged a look, both of them smiling, then Harley turned without so much as a backward glance at Roman and flounced across the loft to the Joker, who smirked and tossed his cigarette away.

"C'mere, _Puddin'_ ," he drawled, opening his arms wide for her, outrageously smug.

Roman watched, bewildered, as Harley punched the Joker on the shoulder, calling him an asshole and laughing when he grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. He kissed her, and she issued a few stubborn complaints against his lips but wound herself around him all the same, her arms tangling together behind his neck, giving into him.

"So," the woman spoke up, drawing Roman's attention back to her. "I hear you like to torture women." She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "And then you like to make them your _slaves_."

Roman began to tremble violently, his jealousy melting away as genuine terror took hold.

The woman lowered herself to her knees and sat back on her heels, pulling a gold chain from under her camisole and showing him a small green bottle hanging from the necklace.

"This is a kind of lubrication I normally use when I do this," she explained, letting the light catch the glass before she tucked it away. "When I didn't, things got a little bit… _painful_."

The Joker started to cackle, but Harley shushed him.

"Let's be honest, you don't deserve _lube_ , do you, Roman?" the woman sneered, her green eyes rolling over him, disgusted. "Here's some advice I'm _sure_ you've given women before..."

She lifted her hand, and Roman shrank back against the wall, his eye glued to her palm as it hovered in front of his face, then lowered to his neck.

"Why don't you just _lay_ back…" Her green eyes seemed to turn electric as her lips curled into a cruel smirk. "And _take it_. _"_

The woman slapped her hand around Roman's throat, and the moment her skin touched his, a rush of euphoria sucked Roman away from reality, carrying him into a weightless space where neither light nor sound existed.

A tidal wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him, confusing and impossible to decipher as they swirled around him like a raging hurricane. They invaded his body, sweeping in through his eyes and his nose and his mouth, flooding his lungs and bloating his belly, expanding every fatty cavity until he was poised to explode like a force-fed duck ready for slaughter.

 _"_ _Roman Sionis,"_ the woman's voice cut through the storm, clear, calm _,_ and strong. _"What you think you know, and what you think you believe… those things are about to change."_

Love, hate, fear, desire, melancholy, the purest joy—they were baffling, terrifying, glorious. They were pulling him in different directions, _ripping_ him apart, screaming his name, and demanding his attention like a torrent of squawking crows.

They wanted him to live for this woman, to belong to her, to be what she needed him to be.

He lived for no one. Only for her.

 _"_ _You will feel what Samantha felt,"_ the woman hissed. _"And you will feel that every moment of every day of the rest of your fucking life until your piece of shit rapist corpse is rotting in the back lot of Arkham Asylum."_

She wanted him to suffer, so he would suffer.

She believed eternal torment was all he deserved, so he deserved it.

Pain, anguish, horror, _humiliation_ , he deserved it all.

Then Circe was there, but she was Samantha again, her blonde hair glowing with the force of her rage as she flew at him. She was crushing his skull with her bare hands, she was flaying the flesh from his bones and amputating limbs from his body, she was shoveling out his organs, and she was eating him _alive_.

_"_ _This is who you are now, Roman Sionis,"_

It was Samantha, it was Circe, it was Harley Quinn, it was his mother. It was _Poison Ivy_.

" _Never forget me_."

* * *

The night of the Janus Plastics Plant fire cost the occupants of Wayne Manor dearly. Dinah didn't leave her room for four full days, and for the first time in a year, Bruce truly realized just how young she was. Eighteen years old, and he'd treated her like an adult capable of coping with horrors no adult should have to face.

Pulling her out of the burning factory and seeing the haunted look in her eyes… it rattled him. Made him feel irresponsible and misguided.

Dinah came out of her room on the fourth day, looking drawn and resigned as she joined Bruce in the sitting room. Once again, he felt out of his element. Unsure how to navigate a teenage girl's feelings, and not even entirely sure what happened between her and Harley at the factory. All he could do was wait for her to speak.

"I can't stay in Gotham," Dinah said at length, drawing her legs up beneath her on the loveseat. "Harley knows who I am now, and she's too…" She swallowed thickly. "I can't."

"Alright," Bruce agreed soberly. "I think that's probably best too."

"She made me feel like I betrayed her," Dinah explained, her face turning red, maybe with shame. "She said she cared about me."

Bruce pressed his lips together, uncertain of how to respond. It sounded like emotional manipulation, cruel and calculating. The kind of manipulation a cold-blooded killer with no conscience would find second nature.

"She's a psychopath," Dinah continued dully, catching Bruce's eye like she knew what he was thinking. "But she believes she can care about people, and in her own way… she does." She sighed heavily, looking resigned. "It's just dark and twisted... like you're a toy that belongs to her, not a person with feelings."

There was a long stretch of silence as Bruce reflected on Dinah's words, sensing she'd done little else but sit in her room thinking about Harley for the last four days, and this was the conclusion she'd come to.

He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. To say what he should have said long, long ago.

"I know you've always felt… personally responsible for her," Bruce said delicately. "But you aren't, and that isn't any way to live your life."

Dinah could have called him a hypocrite, as she so often did. And she'd be right, as she so often was. But this time, she didn't.

" _Vicki_ said I have to forgive myself," Dinah rolled her eyes. "I don't even know what I have to forgive myself _for_ anymore, or if I just hate Harley for being the first person to, you know," she closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "The first person to _see_ me."

"Dinah," Bruce hunkered forward, forcing her to meet his eye. "You _don't_ have to forgive yourself for how she made you feel."

"I know that." Dinah pressed her lips together and shook her head like she was coming to some inevitable conclusion. "I can't do this anymore, Bruce."

"Alright," Bruce agreed softly, his brow furrowing.

A long silence stretched between them, one Bruce had no idea how to fill, but Dinah didn't seem inclined to either. So he tried a different tact.

"We should look forward, not backward," he suggested, bracing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "I don't want you to feel like I'm pushing this, but… maybe we look at college as an option?"

Dinah looked up at him sharply, bewildered. " _College_?"

"College is where people find themselves," Bruce shrugged.

His experience at Princeton had been nothing but one long, painful slog that he eventually abandoned, but maybe it would be different for her.

"It's where you figure out who you are, what you want to do, where you get a sense of independence."

Dinah looked uncertain.

"It would get you out of Gotham, and maybe give you some direction," Bruce coaxed. "Help you figure out what you want to do next. And it would be completely different from all of this."

"Princeton?" Dinah made a face. "How am I supposed to go to Princeton with people like…" She winced. "Well, with people like you."

Bruce laughed weakly. "It won't _only_ be spoiled rich kids."

She shot him a dubious look.

"Okay, it mostly will be," Bruce conceded. "But not all of them. You'll make friends. It'll be hard but," he shrugged and gestured between them. "Remember how hard this was at the beginning?"

Dinah nodded slowly, agreeing, in theory at least.

Later that afternoon, Bruce called Princeton to suggest they may need a new library, and perhaps the university would be interested in acquiring a Matisse from the Wayne Family's collection. Several million dollars and a Matisse later, Dinah was accepted into Princeton University's freshman class, which would be starting its Fall quarter in just two weeks.

A few days later, Alfred drove Bruce down to Arkham Asylum, where Roman Sionis had been institutionalized. A diagnosis was still in the works, the doctors and specialists baffled over a healthy thirty-three year-old-man flipping from successful businessman to psychotic lunatic within a matter of days.

There was more to that story. There was everything Vicki told Bruce about Roman's dealings with the mob, with Daggett Shipping and the blue poppies, with the new mayor Hamilton Hill, and with Roman's missing fiancee, Samantha Pierce.

But Vicki wasn't taking Bruce's calls, and she wasn't writing about Roman's bad behavior or that of his co-conspirators either. She wouldn't testify because doing so would incriminate herself for colluding with Harley Quinn, for which Bruce determined Vicki felt decidedly less heartbroken than Dinah.

It had been a mistake getting involved with her, one Bruce deeply regretted. Being with Vicki had been like a brief vacation from reality, one that distracted him from the paranoia plaguing Dinah and Roman's city-wide takeover. Guilt dogged his conscience, rivaling but not quite reaching what he'd felt after Rachel and Harvey's deaths.

Bruce swore to himself he would not allow this to happen again. He would not become complacent or behave so carelessly.

The only person who could corroborate Vicki's story, the only person willing to testify against Roman, was the Riddler. They didn't have a real name for him, and he was hardly a reliable witness. A histrionic sociopath with ADHD, the court psychologist determined at the country prison. Definitely a candidate for Arkham, not Blackgate.

The Riddler refused to give up Harley Quinn and the Joker, and he kept mum about Mayor Hill's role in the conspiracy too. Nothing he claimed about Roman could be corroborated, not until one night when the GCPD received a tip about a body found near the Harbor. Dental records identified the corpse as Samantha Pierce. The body was missing its tongue, and there were other signs of mutilation indicating she'd been horrifically tortured.

The MCU wouldn't be able to pin all of Roman's crimes on him, and they might not have been able to indict Hill, but they would get justice for Samantha Pierce. Roman would be tried for her murder, though at present, he was mentally unfit to stand trial.

That was what brought Bruce to Arkham on that rainy afternoon. He needed to see what happened to Roman for himself.

"Mr _Wayne_ ," Arkham's new director greeted him with a smile, his voice an odd warble. "How _wonderful_ of you to visit."

"Thank you for seeing me, Dr Strange," Bruce offered Hugo Strange a pinched smile. "How are you finding Arkham?"

" _Oh_ , it's only been three days now," Strange explained good-naturedly as they walked toward the infirmary on the ground floor. "Dr Leland was very _eager_ to get back to academia. I think she finds work here… slightly _macabre_."

"Macabre." Bruce had to laugh. "Joan Leland may have a point."

"Perhaps," Strange chuckled. "We're starting a new project next week. Something to get the inmates moving and outdoors. A new _greenhouse_."

They stopped in front of the infirmary, and Strange sighed melodramatically.

"I should warn you," he admitted. "Mr Sionis is _heavily_ sedated. His condition is… _extreme_."

"Do you have any idea what happened to him?" Bruce frowned. "Could it be Jonathan Crane's fear toxin?"

"There were trace amounts of cocaine and opioids in his system, but no sign of fear toxin," Strange explained, glancing at Bruce over the tops of his circular blue glasses. "But if he did to Samantha Pierce what he's accused of, perhaps Mr Sionis was not as _sane_ as he appeared."

Strange pushed the infirmary door open and gestured for Bruce to enter, stepping back into the corridor to give him some privacy with his old school friend.

Roman was in a hospital bed near the window, rain trickling down glass covered in steel bars, quantifying his incarceration even if he wasn't aware of it. Half of his face was wrapped in thick gauze, and he wore orange hospital scrubs, identifying him as an inmate.

Bruce rubbed his hand over his jaw thoughtfully as he examined Roman's wounds, the heartbeat monitor beeping steadily beside him.

Roman's left eye had been removed. He'd been stabbed in the shoulder and the stomach, and he was missing three and a half fingers from his right hand.

_Harley Quinn._

This was her vengeance. It was as obvious as if she'd carved her name into his forehead.

"Samantha," Roman panted, his eye wide-open, horrified but unseeing. " _Samantha_."

Bruce sighed and pressed his lips together, uncertain of what he was witnessing.

But something told him he would eventually find out.

* * *

Lee worked the late shift again, which was really just a long day shift that stretched into the night. The Narrows clinic was always too busy, too understaffed, and too underfunded. It was frustrating, but it only made her more dedicated— if she didn't look after these people, then who would?

It had been almost a week since Ed was arrested and Harley escaped police custody, the Joker as elusive as ever. Lee kept an eye on the newspapers, headlines catching her eye in passing as fellow commuters read their copies of the Gotham Globe on the metro. Headlines like _"WHO IS THE RIDDLER? MASKED TERRORIST FINALLY CAUGHT BY THE BATMAN"_ or _"RIDDLER'S CRIME SPREE COMES TO AN END — WILL IT BE ARKHAM OR BLACKGATE?"_ or _"COMMISSIONER GROGAN CALLS VIRAL HARLEY QUINN VIDEO 'A HOAX.'"_

Lee saw that viral video of Harley being dragged out of the back of a police cruiser, unconscious and bleeding. It was shaky cell phone footage, but it still made Lee's pulse leap anxiously. She just hoped wherever Harley was now, she was safe.

It sounded like Ed would be committed to Arkham, which Lee supposed wasn't the worst thing that could happen to him. He _could_ be dead. But she remembered how hard it was for him being chained up in the bathtub… it was just _cruel_ to put Ed behind bars.

It was well after midnight when Lee got home, sighing as she unlocked her front door, and wondering if the leftover frittata she'd saved for dinner would be as squidgy as she expected it to be.

But when she stepped over the threshold, she immediately froze. A lamp in the living room was on, and someone was shuffling around in the kitchen. The refrigerator door creaked open, and they cleared their throat, making their presence known.

Lee swallowed thickly, her mind racing, but instead of doing the logical thing—turning and fleeing for her life—she stepped into her apartment and pushed the door shut behind her.

Her heart was pounding as she took a few shaky steps down the hall to her kitchen, nervous, excited, scared, but not at all surprised to find the Joker waiting there for her.

He was wearing a striking three-piece suit of violet and emerald, the one Lee always saw in the papers, his trademark. His face was painted in smears of red, white, and black, twisting an imperfect but handsome face into something gruesome. He was almost unrecognizable from the man whose life she saved, the man who spent hours in her window, chain-smoking and glowering, frustrated by the captivity of his physical weakness. The man who ate Lee's food and flirted with her to keep her supplicant and made love to his partner in Lee's bed.

He was frowning at the contents of the refrigerator, looking disappointed, maybe due to the lack of red meat he'd become accustomed to finding in there. Or perhaps he was looking for the green juice, an idea that nearly made Lee laugh. She took a deep breath to stop herself, and he looked up at her sharply.

His eyes were unsettling, glittering with dark humor like he knew what she was thinking—like maybe he could read her mind. There was a spark of familiarity too, an inside joke. Lee _knew_ him, she realized, and at that moment, the mysticism of the Joker fused with the man she'd saved, compelling her, frightening her, exciting her, making her question everything.

"Dr _Thomkins_ ," the Joker purred, pushing the refrigerator door shut. "How's tricks… _hmm_?"

Lee struggled to find her voice, having to fight past the excited beating of her heart.

"Tricks are fine," she croaked, making the Joker smirk faintly.

He took a few swaying steps backward to lean against the stove, then folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.

"You've been _very_ quiet," he observed, raising an eyebrow.

Lee took an unsteady step into the kitchen, feeling like she was joining a tiger in its cage.

"I don't have anything to say," she insisted.

"Ohhh, we _both_ know that's not true, doc," the Joker chuckled, looking amused as Lee took another hesitant step toward him.

"How is Harley?" she asked, a little meekly, but sincere. "I saw the video and she looked… _hurt_."

The Joker chuckled again, tonging the scar splitting his bottom lip. He looked off to the side, considering something, then those dark eyes rolled right back to Lee.

"Don't you _worry_. Harley's just _fine_ ," he reassured Lee in a patronizing sing-song. "But uh, I got this _ear_ thing." He wrinkled his nose and knocked on the side of his head with his fist. "It just _won't_ stop ringing."

Lee's eyes widened as she realized why he was there.

For _medical_ attention.

Some of the tension eased from her body as she edged closer to him.

"Do you want me to… to take a look?" she asked, and he shot her a pointed look suggesting she already knew the answer to that.

He pushed away from the counter and pivoted to the side with a dramatic little flourish, ducking down so his left ear was in Lee's field of vision.

Her hands were mercifully steady as she brushed a few greasy locks of sandy hair back to get a look at his ear, which was reddened like he'd been poking at it.

"How long has it been ringing?" she asked.

"Oh, about a _week_ ," he drawled, staring straight ahead as Lee prodded his ear. "Had a little run-in with the _Batman._ "

"Did it bleed?" Lee asked, taking the fact that she was treating a Batman-related injury in stride. "Was there any fluid?

"Yep," the Joker smacked his lips like he was getting bored. "Lotsa blood. _Lots_ of fluid."

Lee snapped her fingers beside his ear. "Can you hear that through the ringing?"

"Uh _huh."_ Then he wrinkled his nose and shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda."

Lee fought back a smile. Always the reluctant patient.

"I think you've probably perforated your eardrum," she explained, watching him bounce back up to his full height, rocking his head from side to side. "It could mend itself, or you could have some permanent hearing damage. Either way, the ringing should stop soon. If it doesn't in the next week, come back and see me."

The Joker tongued the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he listened to her advice, her open invitation prompting him to shoot her a smug, rather _charming_ smirk that made Lee feel a bit flustered.

"You should take antibiotics too," she added. "Just in case."

"Just in case," he rolled his eyes, nodding.

Lee's lips spread into a smile as she realized why he was _really_ there.

"Did Harley force you to come to see me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes and envisioning an argument where Harley worried the ear ringing was something worse, and nagged him to go see Lee, just in case. He would have resisted but ultimately agreed, mostly to get her off his back, but also because the ringing was starting to get to him, and he was a pragmatist underneath it all.

The Joker gave a throatily little chuckle and reached up to tweak Lee's nose, startling her.

"Aww," he cooed, a little bit sinister, a little bit affectionate. "You know us so _well_."

Lee felt a deep, satisfying shiver of pleasure at that statement because it was _true_.

"What about Ed?" she asked, more quietly, knowing she was speaking out of turn. "Will you help him?"

The Joker narrowed his eyes to a squint, observing Lee curiously for a moment.

"Is that what _you_ want?" he lifted one eyebrow. "The _Riddler_ running free."

He was trying to get her to question her choices, make her look at the whole ugly picture, and rattle her philosophically for being so comfortable with them. But Lee wasn't interested in any of that.

She shrugged helplessly. "Life just seems more interesting with the Riddler in it."

"Mm," the Joker nodded slowly, looking pleased. "It sure _does_."

* * *

Pam tugged a blender down from one of Samantha's kitchen cupboards, smirking as she set it on the counter beside Harley's elbow.

"I can't believe you never used this thing," Pam laughed. "This is top of the fucking line."

Harley shot Pam a bemused look. "Do I look like a person who would use a blender?"

"You can make smoothies with it," Pam shrugged. She grabbed a bottle of tequila and flashed Harley a grin as she poured out a few healthy measures. "Or frozen margaritas. It has a fancy ice function."

Since Pam was sticking around in Gotham, she'd decided to take over the lease on Samantha's apartment—now Pam's apartment—and they'd spent the morning shuffling around belongings so she could move in properly.

It had been just over a week since the Janus Plastics Plant fire, during which time Harley had done a hearty amount of sleeping and recuperating after that evening's battle royale. She still had healing cuts and bruises, and her knuckles were mending slowly, which made simple tasks hard, especially when she was down three fingernails. But it was all worth it considering how the night ended: with Roman in a state of permanent torment after a little _alone time_ with Pam.

Now he was a resident at Arkham Asylum, where he would live out his days experiencing near-constant paranoid delusions of Samantha Pierce ripping him limb for limb.

Long-term torture he could never escape.

 _Much_ more appropriate than death.

Pam tossed some ice and Jose Quarvo margarita mix in with the tequila, then slapped the blender on. There was a deafening grinding sound—the fancy ice function, Harley had to assume—prompting Pam to triumphantly mouth, _"YAS!"_ as she pointed at the slushy green liquid whipping around, making Harley laugh helplessly.

"So," Harley smirked as Pam sloshed the margaritas into a pair of glasses and pushed one toward her. "How the hell did you convince Strange to build you a greenhouse?"

"Easy," Pam shrugged. "I told him what I wanted to grow in it."

In a fortunate turn of events, Hugo Strange—Roman's chemist, the psychiatrist responsible for Blue Orchid—had been hired by Arkham's board to replace Joan Leland. He'd been at a loose end once Ed put a bullet in John Daggett's head, thus ending Strange's shady research gig at Daggett Industries.

Strange was announced as Arkham's new director the day after the Janus fire, and Pam had a word with him later that afternoon.

Apparently, they made a deal.

Pam wanted his access to the blue poppies.

Strange wanted access to her.

"You told him what you wanted to grow?" Harley lifted a dubious eyebrow.

"He's _fascinated_ by me," Pam fluttered her fingers, imitating Strange's weird inflection. "He wants to keep me happy. We're gonna turn the whole basement into a research facility, too."

"Seriously?" Harley laughed. "What are you going to research?"

"'Uh, the shit we grow, _me_ , any inmates we may try our toys on," Pam shrugged, swigging more of her margarita. "Whatever we want. He's a weirdo, but we clicked like, instantly."

"Right," Harley narrowed her eyes. "You clicked."

Pam shot her an annoyed look.

"I _promise_ , I kept my hands to myself. Strange is doing everything of his own free will," she insisted. "I'm doing things Harley Quinn-style this time."

"What the hell does that mean?" Harley laughed.

"You know," Pam grinned. "A little charm, a little philosophy, a little sedition. Look how much Frost loves you guys, huh? And that's real. It's not coerced."

Harley could feel a stupid grin growing on her lips, Pam's words endlessly reassuring to her. It felt like she'd turned a page or learned something about herself. Maybe it was dealing with Roman and his lack of interest in consent, making Pam question her interest in the matter.

Whatever it was, Harley was relieved.

"Aren't you a little weirded out by him _studying_ you, though?" Harley wrinkled her nose.

"I'm _studying_ me too," Pam countered. "I'm not his experiment." She set her glass on the counter, her face turning thoughtful as she stared down at her open palm. "Maybe I can figure out how this works." She looked up at Harley. "You know, cellularly. Not just theories."

"I hope you can," Harley beamed. "And I'm glad you're back."

"You big softie," Pam smirked, sloshing more frozen margaritas in their glasses. "So," she continued, more cautiously as she raised her glass to her lips. "Have you thought any more about the Dinah thing?"

Harley sighed miserably, her shoulders immediately slumping.

A few days earlier, she'd plucked up the energy to tell Pam that Black Canary was, in fact, Dinah, and everything that happened at the Janus Plant. Pam had been shocked and personally offended, calling Dinah a traitor and huffing indignantly about loyalty. That quickly transformed into flustered frustration when she realized the Batman likely knew everything Dinah did about her abilities—not much, but enough.

Pam ranted and raged and paced around Samantha's living room while Harley watched from the couch, her shoulders tense as she remembered those anxious, nervous breakdowns Pam used to be prone to. But there was none of that, just well-deserved outrage at Dinah's betrayal and a lot of creative cursing, eventually ending with Pam grabbing a bottle of tequila and falling on the couch beside Harley, drained and sulky.

They hadn't decided what the right course of action was then, and Harley still didn't know now. Thinking about her fight with Dinah at the plant made her feel queasy, reminding her too much of the day she went hunting for Victor after he murdered Roxy. These were different feelings, more bitter, but with a similar emptiness, a sense of loss.

The difference was Roxy had been _taken._

 _Dinah_ had chosen to dedicate her life to putting Harley behind _bars_.

But for reasons Harley wasn't inclined to examine, she'd still saved Dinah's life. _Again_.

"You deserve to be more pissed off than you are," Pam observed.

"Mmph." Harley held her glass out for more margaritas, which Pam readily supplied.

"She was always so quiet and judgey," Pam continued, getting indignant again. "Ungrateful little twat."

Harley ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know what to do."

She actually meant she didn't know what she _wanted_ to do.

"I honestly don't think we're gonna have to do anything," Pam leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the counter. "You know who she is. She knows who the Batman is. There is zero chance she's sticking around after that."

"That would be nice of her," Harley grumbled moodily.

"What's J think about it?" Pam asked, making Harley roll her eyes.

"He went _uhhhh._ " She made a series of funny faces to imitate the Joker, wrinkling her nose, narrowing her eyes to a suspicious squint, and twisting her head from side to side, making Pam laugh. "He doesn't give a shit," Harley shrugged. "He said see you how you feel when you see her."

"Helpful and insightful as always," Pam scoffed, full of her usual virulent disdain for the Joker.

The two of them seemed to have settled on some kind of a truce that consisted of passive-aggressive jibes and a lot of sneering eye-rolling. That was good enough for Harley. The Joker was suspicious of Pam and her abilities, and judged her to be a _'cheating, scheming, predictable goodie-two-shoes.'_ Pam found the Joker to be an _'obnoxious, nihilistic man-child_ _fuckboy'_ , his personal brand of charm decidedly not up her street.

"Speaking of people you need to do things about," Pam tried to fight back a sneaky smirk. "What's going on with Ed? The papers say he's being transferred to Arkham tomorrow."

"Ed," Harley groaned, rolling her eyes. "Bullock called me earlier. They're actually moving him later today."

"I like Ed," Pam announced, and when Harley raised a skeptical eyebrow, she added. "We had a few hours to kill at Lee's, and we got along great. He's hilarious."

"He's _unbearably_ annoying," Harley corrected her flatly.

"Did Bullock say anything else about him?" Pam asked.

"Only that he hasn't said a _word_ about any of us," Harley admitted, wrinkling her nose. "He gave them everything on Roman, but not us. Not you either."

"But you're not going to do anything?" Pam lowered her chin.

"Hey, if _you_ like Ed so much, why don't you get Strange to let him out?" Harley scoffed.

"Seriously?" Pam raised her eyebrows. "Strange has been at Arkham for like, four days. He can't just _lose_ the Riddler his first week. He'd have to wait a few months at least."

"I don't know if Ed could handle a few months at Arkham," Harley winced, picturing Ed in D Wing. "He's right on the brink of psychosis already. The boredom may drive him insane."

The washer/dryer unit in the laundry closet beeped then, letting them know a load was done.

"What about Vicki? What's going on with her?" Pam circled the kitchen counter to throw open the dryer, pulling out a wad of sheets.

"I sent her a thank you card the other day," Harley smirked, jumping off her stool. "She's not talking. She'd just incriminate herself."

"Good," Pam held the sheets out to Harley. "Here you go, your fresh sheets."

Harley thanked her and dropped them in an oversized suitcase sitting open on the floor. It was stuffed full of Samantha's belongings, things Harley determined would be useful or make good disguises… including more than a few pairs of boots.

"Does your place have in-unit laundry?" Pam asked, settling back behind the kitchen counter and downing the rest of her margarita.

Harley shot her a knowing look. "It's not a _place_ , it's a safe house, and there's not just one of them."

"Okay," Pam rolled her eyes. "Do any of your _safe houses_ have in-unit laundry?"

"We can't _all_ not be wanted by the police," Harley replied, fighting back a smirk.

"Hey, you have no idea what it took to get Pamela Isley scrubbed so Lillian Green, upstanding activist and fundraiser, was legit," Pam scoffed. "Maybe if you didn't _intentionally_ plaster your face all over the media, you wouldn't constantly be on the run."

"Nah," Harley grinned, stretching her arms over her head. "It's way more fun to frolic in the daylight than hide in the shadows."

"Just because you're a wanted terrorist doesn't mean you can't do laundry," Pam insisted. "Or learn to cook."

"I don't have time to cook," Harley made a face. "Take out is easier."

"Yeah, and you're thirty, but probably have the cholesterol of a sixty-year-old man," Pam shot her another pointed look. "Not to mention all that second-hand smoke you inhale."

"Eh," Harley shrugged, grinning. "It makes him happy."

Pam rolled her eyes.

* * *

Harley dragged the heavy suitcase through the twisting brick corridors leading to the safe house in Burnley Arms, her mind on Ed as she pulled the loose brick free from the wall beside the door and plucked out the key.

The Joker was pacing in the bedroom with a phone glued to his ear, shirtless and barefoot in a new pair of purple trousers. Harley rolled the suitcase into the bedroom, drawing his attention when she let it drop on the floor. He wandered over to squint at her curiously before ambling away and flopping down on the bed; talking to Frost, Harley assumed.

She grabbed the freshly-laundered sheets out of the suitcase, taking a minute to smell them. It was almost a guarantee they were going to be covered in some combination of cigarette ash, gunpowder, sex, and take out within twenty-four hours, so she would enjoy them while she could.

Maybe Pam did make a good case for finding a safe house with in-unit laundry.

When she gestured for the Joker to move so she could put the sheets on the bed, he offered her a dubious look and looked away, stubbornly refusing to move. So Harley worked around him, shoving his shoulder relentlessly until he shuffled a few inches sideways so she could finish the task.

When he was off the phone, he shot her an amused look. " _You_ are so… _weird._ "

"Really? _I'm_ weird?" Harley folded her arms, standing in front of him. "How's Frost?"

"Still nursing Lonnie back to health," the Joker rolled his eyes. He had zero sympathy for Lonnie, who had been starved, tortured, had his tattoos flayed off, and been kept in a dog cage for a solid week, but still managed to remain loyal. "After his _traumatic_ experience."

"That's all he's been doing?" Harley frowned, thinking babysitting Lonnie sounded a little below Frost's usually very capable MO.

" _Nah_ , he's got his ear to the ground," the Joker sniffed, his tongue slipping out to graze over his bottom lip. "Alexandra Kosov and Sweetie split up," he waggled his eyebrows wickedly and reached for Harley's waist to pull her closer. "Sounds like Sweetie's got _all_ the Odessa gossip."

Harley grinned and climbed into his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

"Mmm," his hands skated up her legs and over the curve of her ass. "Ya know who's being moved to Arkham today, dontcha?"

He lifted a knowing eyebrow, and Harley's mouth puckered as she laced her fingers together behind his neck, playing with a few clean, curling locks there.

"Bullock called me earlier," she admitted, distracted by his roaming hands. "Ed hasn't said a word about us."

"Oh, _really_ ," the Joker purred, smirking. "And are you feelin' a little… _sympathetic_ for dear Eddie?"

"No," Harley lied, making the Joker's smirk grow. "Are _you_?" she demanded incredulously.

He sighed like he was deeply afflicted, rolling his eyes out to the side before meeting hers again.

"I just think he's got… _potential_ ," he shrugged evasively. "Eddie's _real_ good at getting people all… _aflutter_."

Harley could read through the lines easily enough.

"You want to break Ed out?" she demanded. "Are you serious?"

"Now I didn't say _that_ ," the Joker countered, playing coy, which was all the confirmation Harley needed to know he did.

She narrowed her eyes. "You've already got it planned, haven't you."

He shrugged again, still playing innocent, making Harley laugh.

It was true. Ed did have potential. And he did get people all _aflutter_. And Harley didn't want to see him in Arkham. It just felt like… a waste.

"He's going to fuck with us again," she predicted.

 _"_ _Well,"_ the Joker flashed her a rakish smirk. "Look how well that worked out for everyone _else_ who's tried it."

Harley's face split into a grin and she shoved him back on the bed before pitching forward over him. Her mouth connected with his neck as she threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling it tight as she licked a tendon at his throat and bit him lightly. 

"How much time do we have?" she asked, running her lips up his jaw to his ear, pulling on his lobe with her teeth.

The Joker's hands tightened on her waist, squeezing her tight before he flipped her onto her back, making Harley's breath catch when he rolled on top of her. He snatched up both of her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head while he settled between her legs, his weight on top of her sending excitement spinning through her belly.

"Hmm," he squinted down at her curiously. "Enough time to play a _game_."

"A game?" Harley raised an eyebrow, pretending not to be interested.

"Mm hmm," he ducked down to press his mouth against her ear, his breath in her hair making Harley shiver. "Why don't we see how loud we can get you to scream… _daddy_."

Harley's eyes snapped open as the Joker pulled back to smirk down at her, _smug_ as hell.

"No way," she scoffed, narrowing her eyes stubbornly. "I will _never_ call you daddy."

"You've said that before," he sing-songed, looking deeply amused. "You _always_ cave for _daddy_."

" _Never_ ," Harley hissed, fighting back a grin.

" _C'mon_ ," he coaxed, offering her a caddish smirk. "We can get you some ah… _pigtails_. Make you all _cute_ when you're begging me to _spank_ you."

Harley gasped indignantly, though she was struggling not to laugh. His grip on her arms relaxed, and she used the opportunity to lock her knees around his hips and flip him onto his back so she was sitting on his stomach. He let her pin his arms to the bed above his head, mirroring how he'd been holding her down a moment earlier.

"I will _never_ wear pigtails," she leaned in closer to nudge his nose with hers. "Not even for you."

"Ya sure about that, puddin'?" the Joker raised a knowing eyebrow, and Harley chuckled before lowering her lips to his, letting them linger as she raked her nails down his chest the way he liked.

"You are going to have to try very… _very_ hard to convince me," she murmured, smiling when he cleared his throat and _squirmed_ beneath her. "Now, why don't you be a _good boy_ and take your pants off _._ "

The Joker flipped Harley back over so quickly she shrieked in surprise, the bed squeaking reluctantly around them. He braced one hand beside her head and ducked down to kiss her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his free hand snuck under her top to curl around her ribs.

" _You_ taste like _tequila,"_ he mumbled, his hands tightening on her. 

"Frozen margaritas," Harley explained breathlessly. "Pam's obsessed with this blender she found, and—"

The Joker pulled away from her abruptly, his eyes widening so incredulously Harley had to laugh. 

"So, _that's_ how it's gonna be from now on, huh?" he huffed, feigning indignation. _"Frozen_ margaritas."

"Don't worry, you're still my favorite," Harley reassured him. She reached between them to unbuckle his belt, smiling up at him. "I'm all _yours_."

"Mmm," his mouth twitched up on one side, pleased about being the _favorite_.

"How much time have we got," Harley asked, spreading her legs a little wider when he nudged them apart, her pulse leaping when he flicked apart the button and zip of her jeans.

"Hmm… if I had to _guess_ …" He shifted to the side to squeeze his hand inside her jeans. " _Just_ enough time to make you _beg_." His voice lowered to a huskier register as his fingers drifted over her. "How's that sound, hmm?"

 _"_ _Oh,"_ Harley sighed, her eyes closing. "Oh, that sounds really good."

* * *

Ed found it _slightly_ comforting to know his transfer from county prison to Arkham Asylum required an armored truck and four police cruisers to escort him. It was as close as you could get to the red carpet treatment as a felon, and after the week Ed just had at the county prison, his ego needed it.

He hadn't _quite_ accepted that this was the end of the line, though each of his progressively more desperate attempts to escape had thus far been thwarted, dragging his mood down through the dirt. One of the more challenging things to accept was that Harley and J were leaving him to rot. Ed thought about what Crane said at the MCU—that they'd been _using_ him, a thought that blackened his mood so severely he could feel himself tipping toward that dark, _damp_ place, which he'd managed to avoid for months and _months_ now. The black hole was always chasing at his heels, even _worse_ than boredom.

To make himself feel better Ed plotted out a few abhorrent ideas for getting Harley and J back for leaving him in there. Tragically, he had plenty of those up his sleeve and plenty more for how to give Gotham a _purpose_ once he was footloose and fancy-free again. But plots for actually freeing _himself_ were sadly far and few between.

Maybe Ed did need a stay at Arkham. A 'rest' as they would have called it in the olden days. Maybe they'd give him some good drugs and some therapy, and it wouldn't be so bad. He could ride out the dampness and rise like a Phoenix from the ashes once it passed.

No, _no._ All Ed needed was an _opportunity_ to arise, one he could reach out and _snatch._

He sat in the back of the armored truck, pouting as they drew closer to Arkham, depression clawing at his back. From what he could tell, they were passing through Downtown, heading south toward the Narrows Bridge. He sighed and bounced his shackled hands, wondering if the Arkham jumpsuits would be a similar burnt-apricot color like the county prison uniforms or if they'd be more toward the pumpkin-spice end of the orange color spectrum.

An engine revved outside, the sound muffled through the armored car's thick steel. Ed hardly paid it any attention until it came again, louder and closer this time, followed by screeching tires and the _pop!-pop!-pop!-pop!-pop!_ of automatic gunfire.

Ed's eyes widened, the little hairs at the back of his neck standing on end as he sat up straight.

For the first time in a week, that little _wiggle_ of finding something _interesting_ broke free from Ed's damp black mood.

 _This_ was the opportunity.

He was nearly thrown to the floor when the armored truck's driver laid his foot down on the gas, the cruisers escorting them turning on their sirens. They took off like a shot, the heavy vehicle swerving dangerously as the driver took a sharp left turn that forced Ed to grab the wall so he didn't go tumbling to the floor.

Without a window to see what was going on outside, he had to strain his ears to hear above the truck's heavy rattling and the sirens wailing. They took a right turn before speeding up again, and Ed could hear the driver shouting into a radio, _panicking_.

Then there were a series of crashes; metal crunching and more tires squealing followed by a rattle of bullets striking the side of the armored truck, leaving indents in the wall behind Ed's head.

The armored truck came to a sudden, rocking stop, and the shouting driver fell silent.

Cause he was _dead!_ Ed realized gleefully.

His heart was in his throat, his eyes wide as he listened to voices shouting outside, and then a torrential rain of gunfire being exchanged. Ed bounced his feet anxiously, nearly squealing with joy that something was _finally_ happening.

When the shooting abruptly stopped, he jumped to his feet, trying to breathe deeply to prepare himself. This may not be some benevolent person here to free him. This could be a _bad_ person.

"Deep breaths, deep breaths," Ed coached himself before giving in to the urge to squeal outright, waving his chained fists triumphantly.

A loud buzzing started up outside the truck, and a huge buzz-saw appeared through the doors' seam. The saw cut through the locking mechanism, and the doors swung open, revealing Harley Quinn in bubblegum pink Dior and flat thigh-high boots, her hands planted on her hips, a smirk on her red lips. The Joker was behind her in violent violet, looking as sexy and chaotic as he always did, a pair of bolt cutters tucked under his arm.

"Hey, Ed," Harley smirked, _sassy_ as anything.

"You _guys!"_ Ed sang, throwing his hands over his heart before he jumped out of the truck. He looked around the alley they were in. A smashed up bullet-ridden electrical van at one end, a few bashed-in cop cars with cracked windshields at the other, ten dead cops between them. "You did all of this for me? _Awww!_ "

Ed went in for a hug, but Harley held a hand up to stop him, fighting back a smile like she didn't _want_ to like Ed but couldn't _help_ herself.

Oh _, fine_ , if that was going to be the dynamic, Ed could live with it.

"Hands up, Eddie," the Joker grunted, raising the bolt cutters to free Ed.

Before Ed could get another word out, Harley threw a set of keys at him, and he caught them just shy of hitting him in the face.

"Squad rules are over, Ed," she informed him, still trying not to smile as she hiked her thumb at the battered van. "Take that thing and find a safe house."

"That thing?" Ed looked between the van and Harley's painted face. "A safe house?"

"You're on the _run_ now, Eddie," the Joker offered Ed a sly smirk that was _so_ stone-cold-killer-slash-eye-candy-sex-machine Ed could hardly stand it. "You got the pigs _and_ the Batman after you… and _we're_ comin' for you next."

"What!" Ed yelped indignantly. "What does that mean?"

"One week," Harley held up her index finger. "We're giving you a head start."

A cruiser with the cracked windshield pulled forward suddenly, the passenger door swinging open to reveal Frost behind the wheel.

"So that's how it's gonna now be, huh," Ed huffed, pretending to be hurt when he was really _thrilled._ "We're not _friends_ anymore."

It was even better—they were _frenemies_.

"Uh-huh," Harley said flatly, seeing right through the performance. The Joker jumped into the passenger seat of the cruiser, and she backed up to join him. "Oh, and Lee's neutral territory. We'll _know_ if you stay with her."

"Well, where am I supposed to go!" Ed pouted, flapping his arms as he watched Harley slide into the Joker's lap, his arm curling around her waist before she slammed the door shut.

The Joker hung his head out the window, flashing Ed a wicked grin. _"Improvise."_

Ed couldn't keep the act up any longer. His face split into a delighted grin as Frost pulled the cruiser away.

"That dress looks amazing with those boots!" Ed called after them, and he was thrilled when Harley stuck her hand out the window to give him the middle finger.

Then Frost hit the gas, and they took off out of the alley, their sirens turning on a few seconds later as they made their escape.

Ed looked around the alley again, excitement racing through him so fiercely he felt like he might just take flight. _Focus, focus_ , he told himself, running toward the driver's door of the battered van and throwing himself behind the wheel.

Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do next?

Ed decided to take J's advice _. Improvise._

It was a whole new world for Edward Nygma, evil genius, fashion icon, and celebrity-criminal-provocateur, aka _the Riddler_.

And now it was time to have some fun of his own.

* * *

**A/N: How's that for a happy ending!**

**Harley & J's whole mood is how I wanted to finish the Harlequin, but I forced myself to make it more restrained. Not this time! This time they're cute as shit. **

**I am outrageously proud of this fic, for all its flaws and extended sub plots. So many of you seemed to connect with Roman & Ed which is the highest compliment. The process of writing, editing & posting the Pantomime has been far more emotionally and intellectually draining than the Harlequin, no doubt because of lockdown too. But it's also been far more rewarding in many ways. Thank you to everyone who religiously reviewed every week - your feedback and insight helped make this story a better read for all of us. **

**_Next: the epilogue - wrapping up stories and hints for what comes next…_ **

**If you've yet to review now is the time to come out of the lurker closet! ;)  
**

**xo**


	26. Epilogue

_Theme: Holly Herndon - 'Eternal' ([Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/3SBhkamFAVooQtvDNz4ZJb?si=trr7feWYQh2A6cj-9I0gHQ)) ([Youtube](https://youtu.be/r4sROgbaeOs))  
_

* * *

The Pantomime

Epilogue.

* * *

Vicki Vale was officially on her way to a Pulitzer Prize. It wasn't locked in yet, but her reporting on the Gotham riots propelled her to the front of the pack. Her deep background and anonymous sourcing was described as _"powerful"_ (Newsweek) _"groundbreaking"_ (Vanity Fair), and _"illuminating to the very character of Gotham City_ " (The Daily Planet).

The big scoop had always been Roman Sionis' dual identity as Black Mask, but that wasn't a story Vicki was willing to tell. Sionis was in Arkham, declared criminally insane, and charged with the murder of Samantha Pierce. That was good enough for Vicki, and there was far too much potential for accidentally stepping on Harley's toes by wading in publicly.

Instead, Vicki reported on the facts in front of her, ruthlessly painting an accurate picture of Gotham for all the world to see.

Harley never did show up on her doorstep, but Vicki received a 'Thank You' card in the mail. It was an actual Hallmark card bordered with pink flowers, a smear of red greasepaint in the impression of a kiss just below the words _'Thank You'_ drawn in curling lilac script.

Vicki immediately set the card on fire, letting it turn to ash in her kitchen sink.

She didn't know what that card was supposed to mean, except that Harley was pleased with how things had panned out for everyone on her 'side.' Sionis was in Arkham, the Riddler roamed free (though Harley and the Joker had leaked his real name to the media, kicking off a war between them), and Vicki was keeping her mouth shut. Who knew how many more stories were connected to Harley Quinn's clash with Black Mask or how those people were doing now.

Bruce tried to get in touch, but Vicki ignored his calls. His identity as the Batman was one secret she would be taking to the grave, right alongside Knox's murder. As far as the world was concerned, Knox was the tragic victim of a mugging gone wrong. The guilt still plagued Vicki, just as her role in the 'Reign of Terror' did, keeping her awake at night or jumping to the forefront of her mind at inopportune times. She resigned herself to the fact that she'd made choices she couldn't take back, and there was nowhere to go but forward.

Going forward included leaving Gotham and getting out of Bruce and Harley's sphere of influence for the sake of her sanity.

That was what brought Vicki to Metropolis, where the rent was steep, but at least there weren't masked freaks running around terrorizing people, and she could have something resembling a normal life.

A month after the night of the Janus Plant fire, Vicki stood on a bustling Metropolis street, squinting up at the colossal bronze globe rotating on top of the Daily Planet's headquarters. A few zoom calls with Lois Lane had turned into a job offer once Lois convinced her editor they desperately needed Vicki as a senior staff reporter. It was precisely the kind of change Vicki was hoping for.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the Daily Planet's lobby, a smile spreading across her face when she spotted Lois waiting for her at reception.

"Vicki Vale," Lois greeted her with a grin.

"Lois Lane," Vicki beamed back at her.

"Welcome to the Daily Planet," Lois waggled her eyebrows. "Hope you're ready to take down some corrupt assholes."

"God, yes," Vicki laughed. "I'm so ready, Lois."

* * *

Princeton wasn't exactly what Dinah had expected. Not everyone was the son or daughter of a billionaire, and she even made a few friends in the first week, gravitating toward the students there on scholarships like she supposedly was. She was Dinah Lance now, an orphan who grew up in a Wayne Foundation orphanage, a brilliant student with a full-ride scholarship to Princeton.

It was a head-spinning change of pace, and it happened within weeks. For the first time in her life, Dinah was surrounded by 'normal' people her age—people she could identify with even if their life experiences were vastly different from her own. Like Dinah, they were trying to figure out who they were and where they fit into the world, and they were _hopeful_ about the future, something Dinah was never very good at.

Being _hopeful_ made it easier not to dwell on Harley Quinn, to give up on feeling personally responsible for her, as Dinah had for so, _so_ long.

Now she was focusing on herself for a change.

It wasn't easy, but she was determined to try, slowly chipping away at the self-loathing she rationally knew she didn't deserve to feel.

It was late October, and all the houses on Greek Row were decked out for Halloween. Dinah donned a tool belt and yellow hard hat in a half-assed attempt at a costume, and joined her small group of friends for a night out of Halloween themed fun.

She'd just finished beating the pants off a frat boy at beer pong, laughing and shrugging helplessly with her friends, when a girl across the room caught her eye.

She was tall and waifish, graceful like a ballerina, her eyes large and doe-like, like a Disney princess, her hair a dark mop brushed back from her beautiful face.

 _Really_ beautiful.

Realizing the brunette was watching her, Dinah quickly looked down into her red plastic cup, uncertain what she was supposed to do. _Girls_ were not something she'd quite worked her way up to figuring out yet. Dinah didn't hide who she was, but there had never been anyone for her to come out _to._ Not until she met Harley and Pam, and they'd more or less shrugged it off as an insignificant detail, while Bruce had been awkward, treating it similarly.

Trying to be brave, Dinah looked up to find the brunette's eye again. She was talking to someone out of the corner of her mouth, not really paying attention to them. Her eyes were on Dinah, and when Dinah offered her a small smile, the brunette immediately smiled back and strode across the room.

"Hi," she grinned, full of confidence. "I like your costume."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Dinah laughed and adjusted her yellow hard hat, uncertain how to find out if the brunette was being friendly or… _interested_. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Myself," the brunette shrugged down at her ripped jeans and combat boots, then lifted her Disney princess eyes to Dinah's, almost shyly. "But I _love_ a woman in uniform."

Definitely interested, Dinah realized, her heart leaping excitedly in her throat.

"I'm Dinah," she smiled, offering her hand.

"That's a Gotham accent," the brunette observed. "I'm from there originally, but not for a long time."

She took Dinah's hand, holding her gaze steadily, and for a brief, overwhelming moment, Dinah felt like everything around the two of them vanished. Like nothing else mattered—like there was no one but them.

"I'm Helena," the brunette said, a little coy. "Helena Bertinelli."

* * *

Growing up, Lucy wasn't the sort of girl who dreamt about a big wedding. She certainly wouldn't have expected her wedding to take place at St Margaret's Cathedral Uptown, with hundreds of guests, a designer dress that cost more than the crummy Eastside apartment she grew up in, and a reception at the Ritz Gotham.

Rushing the wedding planning because she was three-months pregnant?

Now that was a little more Lucy's style.

Lucy released a slow breath, trying to stay calm as she smoothed her hand over her stomach, not yet rounded beneath the white silk of her Sofia Falcone wedding dress.

"You look beautiful, darling," Sofia purred, her red lips curving into a smile as she adjusted the sleeve of Lucy's gown.

"Thanks, Sofie," Lucy offered her a grin. "You look really pretty too."

"Pink is not usually my color," Sofia chuckled, looking down at her bridesmaid gown, baby-pink satin with a high ruffled neck. Lucy's choice.

"Mrs Gigante, it's your turn," the wedding planner beamed, gesturing for Sofia to come forward.

"I'll see you out there," Sofia drawled, sweeping away like she was getting ready to stride down a catwalk instead of the aisle as Lucy's maid of honor.

Lucy took another deep breath and bounced her shoulders, giddy energy racing through her.

The wedding planner hurried up to her, smiling and cooing as she fixed Lucy's lipstick and straightened her veil. Out in the cathedral, a wedding march started up, a sprightly string of staccato bursts from an organ announcing Lucy's imminent arrival.

"You look beautiful," the wedding planner reassured Lucy, handing her a massive bouquet of pale pink roses.

Lucy plastered on a smile and stood in front of the doors leading into the cathedral, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. She didn't feel nervous so much as... _ready._ Not just ready to marry Mario, who she loved with all her heart—baby or no baby—but for once in her life, everything seemed to be falling into place. It wasn't fate or luck; it was because of the choices _Lucy_ made. She was following her instincts, believing in herself instead of propping someone else up. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she knew _exactly_ what she had to do to get it.

It felt like _freedom._

It had been a whirlwind three months since Roman was institutionalized at Arkham. Sofia temporarily returned to Gotham to help Lucy put the finishing touches on the wedding and offer some _business_ advice. With Roman in Arkham, a vacuum had formed in Gotham's underworld. One that needed to be filled.

Mario Falcone wasn't up to the challenge of running Gotham City.

But _Lucy_ Falcone would be.

And right now, at that moment, Lucy felt like the world was _hers_ if she wanted it.

The doors swung open, revealing the massive cathedral with its stained glass windows and carved stone gargoyles, wreaths and bouquets of pale pink and magenta flowers hanging from every available surface. The organ spewed a series of long, dramatic notes as three-hundred guests got to their feet and turned to watch Lucy walk down the aisle.

Her heart pounded happily when she spotted Mario waiting for her at the altar. Alberto stood to his left, acting as his best man with ten Falcone cousins lined up as groomsmen behind him. To his right was Sofia, Lucy's maid of honor, with a litany of female Falcone cousins dressed head-to-toe in baby pink in tow.

When Mario saw Lucy, he promptly burst into tears, his weak chin wobbling.

Alberto rolled his eyes and passed his brother a handkerchief.

Lucy didn't have any family of her own, but the Falcone clan had more than enough relatives and associates to pack out St Margaret's. Cousins from Italy and weathered crime lords from Chicago sat beside Sofia's fashionista friends. As per usual, Gotham's Cosa Nostra members were scattered amongst members of Gotham's high society, including Mayor Hamilton Hill, a new associate of Lucy's.

There was only one person on Lucy's side of the aisle that she could genuinely call hers. She caught Victor Zsasz's eye as she passed him, his bald head stark against his black-on-black suiting. Victor offered her a dopey grin and a thumbs-up, and Lucy grinned back at him.

Victor had become _far_ more agreeable since he had a little chat with the mysterious Poison Ivy.

Sofia provided some insight on that matter, suggesting Lucy accept the gift of Victor's obedience but otherwise maintain a wide berth from Poison Ivy.

That was Lucy's instinct too.

Lucy beamed at the faces she knew and those she didn't, her veil streaming behind her as she walked down the aisle. There were more people than pews to sit in, guests spilling into the wings and crowded together in the enclaves above.

Lucy was almost to the altar when she saw them.

Two people wearing dark sunglasses and wedding attire watched from the wall on the Bride's side, just a few pews from the front. A man with sandy hair raked back from his face, and a woman wearing a pretty pink dress, her platinum hair wavy around her shoulders. They blended in well enough, and no one else seemed to notice, but Lucy _immediately_ recognized Harley Quinn and the Joker.

Her eyes widened, her nostrils flaring in outrage as she continued down the aisle, staring at them openly.

Harley and the Joker smirked and waggled their fingers at her slyly, Harley lowering her sunglasses to offer Lucy a wink.

Lucy pivoted back to face the altar, her jaw tense, blood rushing in her ears as she tried to decide why they were there. Was it an attack? Were they going to blow the cathedral sky-high? Were they there to kidnap a guest? Assassinate Alberto? Was this the beginning of another reign of terror?

Or could it just be that Harley wanted to _fuck_ with her?

Lucy's instincts told her that was the one.

Her teeth grinding together, Lucy stepped up onto the altar, offering Mario and the priest a tight smile as she handed her bouquet to Sofia, using the gesture to look over her shoulder.

Harley whispered in the Joker's ear, making him smirk as he watched Lucy react to their presence.

Lucy fought back a scowl and spun back around to face Mario, forcing herself to ignore the clowns. She only got _one_ wedding day.

The priest opened with a prayer, which Lucy used to close her eyes and center herself, telling herself Harley was there to make a point, not to ruin the day with death and destruction. Lucy wouldn't count Harley as an ally, but she knew Harley wanted to see her succeed. She didn't know _why_ or what it meant that a psychopath had such a high opinion of her, but Lucy didn't intend to sit down and ask her about it over cocktails any time soon.

One thing was sure. There was no getting around the fact that Harley and the Joker were a pervasive presence in Gotham, and figuring out how to work _around_ them was a necessity.

A necessity Lucy's predecessors had not understood.

Feeling tense and sick, Lucy went through the motions of the wedding service, kneeling for the nuptial blessings and taking communion, doing her best to be present as she and Mario exchanged their vows. She was almost… _almost_ able to forget the clowns when Mario slid the wedding band on her finger. She met his big puppy dog eyes, full of happy tears, and that sense of knowing what she was doing came roaring back, puffing her up with confidence.

"You may now kiss the bride!" the priest announced, prompting Mario to sweep Lucy up in his bulky arms, the organ picking up another long-winded, warbling tune.

Lucy melted into the kiss, feeling whole for the first time in her life. This was her family now, and she would do whatever she had to to keep Mario and the baby growing inside her safe.

"Ladies and gentleman, Mr and Mrs Mario Falcone!" the priest beamed.

Mario and Lucy turned to face their cheering guests, holding hands and grinning, Mario still wiping tears from his cheeks.

Lucy's eyes immediately darted to the third pew, and she had to fight back a scowl when she saw Harley and the Joker twined around one another, making out like a pair of teenagers, ignoring the bewildered looks from the people around them.

Then Harley broke away, throwing her head back and laughing before she looked up at Lucy again. She shot Lucy a knowing look and winked again.

Almost like she knew something Lucy didn't.

* * *

Shanghai was full of assholes. Or at least that was Pam's estimation of the city. She'd been there twice before, once for a biochemistry conference she slipped into unnoticed, just to listen, and then again to have a word with the CFO of China's biggest electricity company. That was when inception still took weeks before she'd upgraded the perfume to its full potential. Two weeks in Shanghai was enough to get to know the city, its cleanly exterior belying the sickness of greed pulsing away within.

She was there to make a deal for the blue poppy. Importing them was a dead-end—Pam wanted to see them _grow_. She was meeting Strange's contact from the League of Shadows to negotiate access to the hilltop where the poppy bloomed, where she could collect the data she needed to cultivate them herself.

Grabbing a cab from the airport, Pam gazed out the window at the city's financial district, taking in the skyscrapers and shiny banks, populated by businessmen and tycoons and corrupt, greedy people. The kind of people it was her purpose to change—to make them productive for her. For the _world_.

Pam saw the Wall Street oligarchs in the newspapers, and she thought, if I was only _close_ enough to _touch_ you…

She watched the pundits on Fox News, lying to people. All it would take is a fingertip, and you would be _gone_.

She read about politicians refusing to do what was necessary—sacrificing the planet for their beloved economies. _I just need to get close enough…_

Strange had organized this meeting—drinks at the thirty-sixth-floor bar of the Four Seasons Shanghai. The dress code called for semi-formal, so once Pam was shown to her suite, she shimmied into a floor-length gown, its sage green silk flowing against her pale skin. Her dark red hair was cut a blunt Egyptian-style bob, her ears decorated with small gold hoops, and as always, she wore a long necklace with a delicate green-glass bottle dangling from the end of its chain.

The hotel bar was a blur of the usual things people thought of as luxurious—mahogany paneling and Art Deco details, well-heeled waiters and a tuxedoed pianist at a baby grand, crystal cut glasses brimming with top-shelf liquor. Almost immediately, Pam spotted the woman waiting for her at the bar, prompting her to finger the perfume bottle thoughtfully. There was a lucrative deal waiting back in Gotham once they could grow the poppies at home. One that would finance Pam's research without resorting to stealing or conning men out of their money.

She tucked the pendant beneath her dress as she approached the woman, taking note of her backless satin gown, her auburn hair knotted in a twist at the side of her neck, held there with a sparkling clip. She looked like a wealthy woman, privileged, a costume to hide who she was.

Pam sidled up to her, catching the bartender's attention, and ordering a tequila straight up. She could feel the woman watching as the bartender set the drink in front of her, and Pam took a quick sip before turning to face her.

"Dr Isley, I presume," the woman purred, her voice slightly accented. "Hugo has told me many things about you."

"He's told me many things about you too," Pam replied, finding the woman a little arrogant and annoying already. Nothing a little perfume wouldn't fix so this business relationship could take shape, and Pam could get to _work_.

"He tells me you two are studying your abilities," the woman continued slyly. "Perhaps _I_ may be of help to you."

"I'm not here for whatever dogmatic ninja-assassin bullshit you're selling," Pam drawled. "I'm here to make a deal."

"What is dogma but philosophy?" the woman countered gently. "And what is an assassin, but a tool?"

"A philosophy geared toward destroying Gotham," Pam scoffed.

"The League of Shadows exists to bring order to the world, balance," the woman insisted. "Our warriors' purpose is to cut out the cancers of corruption, decadence, injustice. _Greed_. Tell me, Pamela, are we so different?"

The woman cocked her head to the side, her brown eyes searching Pam's face, and Pam stared back at her, feeling a familiar warmth grow beneath her palms like it found the woman's words… _interesting_.

"I sense a great power in you, Pamela," the woman continued, making Pam blink hard, taken aback. "One that can change the world."

Pam looked away, knocking back the rest of the tequila as the warmth in her hands grew hotter, more intense. It whispered to her, reminded her of her purpose. Pam felt like the woman was speaking directly to that purpose now. The purpose she'd felt at every turn.

"But you _fear_ it," the woman breathed, her gaze intent. "I can help you unlock it, Pamela. I can be the key."

Pam fingered the perfume around her neck, the warmth growing like a crackling fire. The urge, the temptation deepening alongside it. She wasn't naive; she knew this wasn't an offer in good faith. That like Harley before her, this woman had her own agenda and wanted to use Pam as a tool. A weapon.

But Pam had long ago decided she was no one's weapon but her own.

She thought about what Strange said about the woman and how serious he'd been.

_She is no ordinary woman. She is the daughter of mercenaries, the daughter of mystical arts. She is powerful, and her men love her like a mother._

Pam let the pendant swing back beneath her dress, giving into the power as she looked the woman in the eye.

The warmth, the _power,_ spread from her palms to her cheeks, the soles of her feet and under her arms; it told her this was the right way.

"So," the woman smirked faintly, arrogant. "Do we have a deal?"

Pam's hand snaked up to close over the back of the woman's hand, and her eyes immediately widened, surprised when she felt the tendrils of Pam's power sneak inside her, searching out what some might call a soul. Pam could feel her strength, her drive, her belief, her _purpose_. They were barriers, strong and supple.

But Pam was stronger.

"Talia al Ghul," Pam said, her voice low and calm as she held the woman's gaze. "What you think you know, and what you think you believe… those things are about to change."

A lovesick smile spread over Talia's face, and Pam was fascinated by the unusual sensation of crystals crackling behind her eyes as she connected to this daughter of mercenaries.

She removed her hand, but she didn't let Talia go.

Talia sighed dreamily, peaceful and obedient now that Pam was there to guide her.

"Yes, Ivy," she breathed.

* * *

 **A/N: SO!** **I've obviously laid out some breadcrumbs for a third (and final!) story, which would take place five years in the future. I would love to say I will start posting late next year, but these things are a massive undertaking, and right now I'm at like 10% motivation when I need to find my way to at least 60%, and I've hardly written anything yet. So the "when" of this next fic is very much up for debate.**

**Trilogy closers tend to either be bad or meh, but hopefully, I can develop unique takes on Helena Bertinelli and Poison Ivy (and a few other characters, too) like I did for Roman & Ed. I've recently learned that *no one* ships Helena & Dinah, lol, so I have no idea how them being in a long term relationship will go down.  
**

**Also, that is the end of Vicki's Harlequin-verse story. She's in Metropolis hanging out with Lois Lane and getting on with her life. Her closer just fit better in the epilogue, though. That's all, folks.**

**Make an account and subscribe for author updates, follow me on[Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/knit-wear-it) & turn on notifications—I will only be updating it with news about this next story, possible one shots, maybe some hints/inspo, and any new fan art that comes in. I ** **might** **take Asks over the next few days, but please review on here first.**

**The next story will be as different from the Pantomime as the Pantomime is from the Harlequin, and as the title suggests, things will get wild….**

**Here's a little taste.**

**The Rabbit Hole **

**" _The shape of power is always the same; it is the shape of a tree. Root to tip, central trunk branching and re-branching, spreading wider in ever-thinning, searching fingers. The shape of power is the outline of a living thing straining outward, sending it's fine tendrils a little further, and a little further yet…_**

**_"_ _Like the rivers to the ocean, like the lightning strike, the power is obscene and uncontainable_."**

**_—Naomi Alderman, 'The Power'_ **

**Sometimes the lines between friends and enemies blur, and the ones you love the most turn on you, even Gotham's two most notorious psychopaths.**

**It's been fab writing for you guys, I hope I'll be back one day.**

**  
****Please comment & review if you haven't yet - it’ll help my currently lacklustre motivation, lol. **

**xo**

**Author's Note:**

> Updates on Sundays as per usual, usually just after midnight PST. We have 25 chapters + an epilogue! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr (knit-wear-it) for more content, music & me batting away spoilers via anonymous asks! 
> 
> Please review with your comments/feedback - they genuinely help me edit & make me so happy :)


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